


The Dating Game

by knullabulla



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knullabulla/pseuds/knullabulla
Summary: A visit from the Duke inspires Lady Mary to help Barrow sort out his love life.





	1. We All Have Our Crosses to Bear

He took in the news passively yet curiously, as one does when tragedy strikes those with whom one holds only a passing acquaintance.  “ **TITANIC SINKS** ,”screamed the front page of the London Herald, “ **Great loss of life**.”  It really was a pity, thought Philip, as he sipped his tea.  There were bound to be important members of the peerage aboard the ship upon her maiden voyage, and Lord only knew what sorts of headaches that would cause for anyone unlucky enough to have an heir or two left clinging to the side of an iceberg.  Not to mention the poor sods below deck; although, Philip supposed—

 

The click of the library door opening interrupted his thoughts.  “Thank you, Bradford,” said Mother as she barely gave the aged butler a second glance, “Mr. Asquith will be joining us for dinner this evening.  See to it that Mrs. Fitzgerald has an appropriate menu prepared.”

 

“Very good, your grace,” replied Bradford, bowing deeply as he backed out of the room.  “I shall see to it at once, your grace.”

 

Philip couldn’t help smirking at the butler’s subservience.  It was certainly quite the contrast from—

 

“Wipe that foolish grin off of your face at once,” snapped Mother.  She was pacing the room, a small slip of paper clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were turning white.  “You told me that you were going to end this nonsense.  You _swore_ to me that you were going to put your family, your _duty_ first,” she seethed as she brandished the paper like a weapon, “And yet, here I see that you never had any intention to end your depravity.”

 

Philip felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. “Mother, I can— I can explain,” he could just barely stammer out.

 

“Thank God, your father isn’t alive to see what you’ve become.”  It wasn’t the first time she had said something of that nature to him, but it stung nevertheless.

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

“Your little queer wants you to pay him a visit,” she sneered.

 

Philip swallowed against the bitter taste of bile building at the back of his throat.  Although deep down, he knew that there was no future to be had with Thomas—even if their genders were not a factor, their differences in class certainly were—he was still rather fond of the man, if for no other reason than that the footman’s acerbic humor made him laugh.  “I know what my duty is Mother,” he said as he strode towards the woman who supposedly nurtured him for nine months in her womb.  Snatching the telegram from her hand, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fire where it flared for a moment before turning to ash.

 

“I _warned_ you that if this nonsense continued, I would see that pervert put behind bars where he belongs,” she threatened, her voice as cold as the fire was hot.

 

“I have no intentions of seeing him again, Mother,” Philip gritted between his clenched teeth.

 

Mother was pacing again the room again.  “Oh, no.  You’ll see him again.  You’ll see him, and you’ll make certain that he _never_ comes near our family’s happiness ever again.”

 

Happiness? Is that what she called it? “Yes, Mother.”

 

“I imagine you were stupid enough to send him letters? You will go to Downton and you find _anything_ that he could possibly use against our family. And you will _burn_ it all. You will burn it all just the same as those _disgusting_ letters he sent you.”

 

_My dearest, how I miss the warmth of your body and the gentleness of your caress._

 

“Yes, Mother,” he mumbled to her back as she moved to exit from the room, for as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

 

_How I miss our evenings at Lyons Corner House— and, of course, all that came after._

 

“Oh, it would seem that Mary Crawley finds herself without a suitor,” Mother said as almost an after thought, “it’s still a bit unclear whether or not she’s eligible to inherit, but it’ll be a sizable fortune if she does.  See to it once you’ve gotten rid of that despicable creature.”

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

_My only wish is to spend the rest of my days with you and you alone._

 

Perhaps a marriage to Lady Mary Crawley would be tolerable enough.  As far as Philip could tell, she was a handsome enough woman—so at least the children wouldn’t need to be hidden away lest they offend someone’s eyes.  Besides, Philip found it highly doubtful that his parents _ever_ held any love for one another.  Romantic notions of _love_ had no place within the aristocracy.  “I know what my duty is,” he whispered to himself.

 

_Until we meet again.  All my love, T. B._


	2. Six Degrees of Anderson Cooper

“I must say that I’m truly impressed with the work you and Tom have put into diversifying your landholdings,” enthused Charles Blake as he made himself comfortable on the red velvet sofa. 

 

Lady Mary Talbot bore a smile like the cat who not only ate the canary, but made the canary thank her for the privilege of being devoured.  “Well, I seem to recall a certain gentleman coming to the rescue when our entire pig investment was in danger of being wiped out, so I consider this to be _our_ success,” she demurred politely.

 

Offering a devilish grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, Charles suggested, “I guess you could say I saved your bacon?”  He received a trademark roll of Mary’s eyes in response.  “Well, I think I’m hilarious,” he chuckled to himself as he lifted his teacup to indicate that he was in need of a refill.  “Thank you, Barrow.”

 

Barrow bowed slightly at the waist and gave a softly murmured, “sir” in reply.

 

Lady Mary looked up and offered her butler a warm smile.  “Yes, thank you, Barrow.  How are preparations coming along for our visitors?” she inquired even though she was quite confident that Thomas had the situation well in hand.  

 

“The day maids finished airing out the guest bedrooms this morning and Mrs. Patmore has—if the smells coming from the kitchen are any indication—a truly fine meal planned for this evening,” Barrow explained as he kept his face utterly inscrutable, his posture impossibly erect, and his chest seemingly puffed out with pride.  It was only the slight tremor in his voice that gave him away.

 

Three months after offering the role of butler to him, Mary knew Thomas’s mannerisms well enough to recognize that this outward show of confidence belied the man’s anxiety that he would be found wanting by Upstairs and Downstairs alike.  In truth, it worried her, but she was unsure how to address the matter. “Wonderful!” exclaimed Lady Mary warmly as she turned back to Charles to continue their conversation.  “Now, please remind me Charles.  Who will be joining us for the weekend?” she inquired as much for her own benefit as for Barrow’s, who would undoubtedly have his hands full coordinating an influx of guests as well as servants.

 

Pulling a small notebook out of an inside pocket of his charcoal grey suit jacket, Charles reviewed his notes, “Let’s see.  Lord and Lady Shrewsbury will be coming in from Lancashire—they’re wishing to know more about investing in both agriculture and livestock.  And Sir Martin Wallace will be heading up from, uh, Cotswold.  He’s been trying to decide whether or not to sell off his property in Bristol.  Oh, but I’m afraid Tony—“ Mary stiffened imperceptibly at the name “—had to send his regrets.”

 

“Oh?” asked Mary as she endeavored to keep her face as neutral as possible.

 

Charles shrugged, “I suppose he thinks things might be awkward between you and Mabel what with him trying to court you.”

 

“Yes, I suppose that might be the case.”  She offered Charles a breezy smile, which rapidly changed into a grimace only barely concealed behind the teacup that she quickly brought to her lips for camouflage.

 

“At any rate,” continued Charles, “Tony suggested that we extend an invitation to the, ah, Duke of Crowbor— Barrow, are you quite alright?” The sound of china rattling just behind his left shoulder interrupted him mid-sentence.

 

“Yes, sir.  My apologies, sir,” replied Barrow, his face blank and unreadable.  

 

While Charles’ back was turned to look over his shoulder, Mary cast upon Thomas her own quizzical gaze.  But once Charles had straightened around again, she immediately smiled and explained, “I’m afraid Barrow is being a bit overprotective of me, Charles.  Years ago, the Duke came for a visit with the intention of courting— Well, let’s just say it wasn’t _me_ he was interested in courting.”

 

Charles had a knowing smile upon his face, for the Duke’s fortune hunting had become notorious in several circles.  “Ah, did he find your bank account to be less attractive once it was clear the entail couldn’t be broken?” he asked.  “Well, apparently, he and Tony play polo together and have been discussing finances as of late.  But, if you would prefer that he didn’t come…”

 

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mary said with a laugh. “It was _years_ ago; goodness, I’ve been twice married and have my second child on the way.  Believe me, I have not been spending the past fourteen years pining away for the Duke.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

 

“Besides,” Mary continued as her eyes flickered over to Barrow, “last I heard, he was married to one of the Vanderbilts and was quite busy producing a small army of little Vanderbilts.”

 

Charles’ face broke out in a grin, “Yes, I hear that number four is currently baking.”

 

Glancing furtively at Barrow—who despite standing as straight and tall as ever, seemed at the same time to be almost wilting—Mary queried, “Should we have Dr. Clarkson on call just in case?”

 

Shaking his head, Charles explained, “No, I don’t believe she’s quite that far gone.  Besides, Tony tells me that the Duke will likely leave her at home.  Apparently, she’s not very fond of traveling outside of metropolitan London.  According to Tony, the two of them almost never travel together.”

 

“Ah, not one for the country, is she?” asked Mary with an arched eyebrow.  She sniffed slightly with indignation towards this woman whom she had never met.  Typical Londoner snobbery, she thought to herself.  The city might have its diversions, but Mary would always love the bucolic beauty of the Yorkshire countryside.  She groaned slightly as the baby shifted inside of her, pushing a tiny fist—or was it a foot?—into her kidney and another tiny foot—or was it a fist?—into her bladder.

 

“Everything alright?” inquired Charles, who looked slightly worried that Mary would start birthing right there on the couch.  He once aided with the birthing of a litter of piglets but somehow doubted that Mary would appreciate the comparison.

 

Offering a weary smile, Mary waved off his concern as she awkwardly stood up, “Yes, quite alright.  But I’m afraid that she’s had quite enough with meetings for today.”

 

Standing as well, as etiquette dictated, Charles teased, “Oh, is it a she?  I was under the impression that these things tended to be a bit of a surprise.”

 

Her smile now turning quite smug, Mary demurred, “My children are quite well behaved, Mr. Blake.  I told this one that she ought to be a girl, and I’m quite confident that she’ll do just as she is told.  And if not…”

 

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to forbid him from going to the pub with his friends for _at least_ the first year,” joked Charles.  “Was there anything else you would like to know?”

 

Mary laughed as she clasped her hands over her belly.  “No, I believe we have everything we need.  Don’t we, Barrow? Barrow?”

 

Seeming to shake himself out of a dream, Thomas replied, “Yes, m’lady.  Everything that we need.”

 


	3. Horse Feathers

“Excellent back shot, Duke!” shouted Tony Gillingham over the din of horse hooves hitting the soft blades of Kentucky Bluegrass at a frenetic pace.  The game was incredibly tight with the competing clubs vying for the winning goal; and with each chukker, the winning score had seemingly volleyed from one side to the other.  As the ball whizzed past his pony’s nearside, Tony checked and turned just in time to swing his mallet along the offside.  With a resounding CRACK, mallet head and ball connected, and the round projectile flew with perfect precision to the team’s number two player.  “Attaboy, Stanley! You can do it!” hollered Tony at the top of his lungs.

 

Just as Stanley was about to earn that “attaboy,” a defender from the opposing team veered towards him, bumping the nearside of his pony and sending the ball into the sideboards.  “Bloody hell,” the man swore as he raised his mallet in the air, appealing to the umpire,“You lads are worse than dealing with Parliament!” 

 

“The play’s a clean one, Mr. Prime Minister,” shouted the umpire just before blowing his whistle to signal the end of the sixth and final chukker.  “Final score: Wakefield 5 Leeds 4,” he called out.

 

“I guess the pints will be on us tonight, eh Tony?” Phillip called out as he trotted his pony towards a waiting groomsman.  Swinging his leg over the pony’s hind quarters, he smoothly dismounted and headed towards the refreshments table for a much needed glass of punch.

 

* * *

 

 

And now it was three weeks later, and Phillip found himself on a train headed for Downton Abbey of all places.

 

It had seemed like a perfectly logical decision at the time.  Phillip needed ideas for how he might  stop hemorrhaging his wife’s money; Lady Mary Craw— no, wait, it was… Tablet? Tableau? Tab-something at any rate—had apparently figured out a way to _increase_ her family’s wealth.  Paying a visit after so many years surely wouldn’t lead to any awkwardness.  Really, Phillip thought to himself wryly, they’d probably forgotten all about his visit over the course of the intervening years.

 

And yet, his stomach twisted with what he alternately imagined to be apprehension followed swiftly by anticipation.  He didn’t dare put the feeling into words, not even in the privacy of his own mind, but even as he tried to deny it to himself, he knew exactly for what he both dreaded and hoped.

 

For _whom_ he both dreaded and hoped.

 

And just like that, a little seed planted itself in his mind and shot down roots to drink up his memories until it blossomed into a name.  “Thomas,” he whispered to himself.

 

“Did you say something, your grace?” asked Bradford, who hitherto had been snoring quite loudly with his chin tucked against his chest.  But now, the old goat was alert and eager as ever to serve as a metaphorical—and Phillip supposed quite possibly _literal_ —footstool for the aristocracy.

 

“No, Bradford.  Just talking to myself,” Phillip muttered as he gazed out the private compartment’s window.

 

“What’s that? You’d like a toffee for yourself?”

 

“What? No! I said I was _talk_ —“

 

The elderly butler staggered to his feet, “I’ll go see if the girl in the dining car has any toffees.”

 

Thumping the back of his head against the headrest of his seat in frustration, Phillip groused, “Bradford! I don’t need any bloody— Actually, never mind.  I do need a toffee.  Why not?  Off you go.” 

 

“Very good, your grace,” replied Bradford as he shuffled out the compartment.

 

Finding himself alone with just his thoughts for company, Phillip tried to picture Thomas in his mind’s eye.  It was a real shame that he never had any photographs taken of the man, for Phillip was quite certain that some of the details had become clouded by the passage of time.  He supposed it was primarily nostalgia that formed an image of a beautiful man with high, sharp cheek bones and a secretive smile.  As memories of pale skin and a firm body fashioned from hard work ghosted under his fingertips, the picture became clearer and clearer.  And his trousers seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.

 

Of course, it was ridiculous to think that Thomas would still look the same.  For all he knew, the man had gained a stone per year and was now the size of a pygmy hippopotamus.  Phillip chuckled to himself.  It would serve the blackmailing little shit right, wouldn’t it?  He was always so vain about his looks—hogging the mirror to comb pomade through his hair before sneaking back to work before anyone noticed he was missing—it really would serve him right if he were to grow fat.  Fat and bald, now that Phillip thought about it.

 

Of course, it was equally ridiculous to think that Thomas would even still be working at Downton.  A man with Thomas’s ambitions would never be happy living a lifetime in service.  Phillip was certain of it.  And it was that certainty that had allowed him to carry out Mother’s demands so many years ago.  Really, what sort of life would that have been for either of them?  _“Darling, when you’re done sucking my cock, I’ll need you to shine my shoes and serve dinner to my guests.  Now, off you go to sleep in the attic!”_   The more he thought about it, the more Phillip concluded that burning the letters had been a truly magnanimous decision.

 

And of course, it was absolutely ludicrous to even _think_ that Thomas would still be harboring any feelings for him.  After all, did _Phillip_ spend day and night thinking back upon the summer of 1911?  Even if he did, on the _rare_ occasion, find himself drifting down memory lane and daydreaming about running his fingers through ebony locks of hair, it was only to relieve the stress created by a life of responsibility and duty.

 

There was _nothing_ between himself and Thomas Barrow.  And, just as the compartment door swung open with Bradford declaring that he had acquired a toffee apple for his grace, Phillip concluded to himself that Thomas Barrow surely felt the same.

The toffee apple, as it turned out, was actually quite tasty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the most likely horribly inaccurate depiction of a polo match. 
> 
> Regarding positions and players (descriptions of positions are from sportpolo.com):
> 
> Tony Gilligham - "Position Number 1 - The attacking offensive player, similar to a forward in hockey or soccer. This player is an accurate hitter and concentrates on opportunities for scoring, but also has the defensive responsibility for the opposing #3 player."
> 
> British Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin - "Position Number 2 - Primarily an offensive player, turns quickly to follow the #1 player on attack, also responsible for defense, interchanging with the #3 player. The #2 player is often the 2nd highest rated player on the team."
> 
> Radio star Will Hay because IMDB calls him "probably one of the most versatile of entertainers" - "Position Number 3 - Similar to a quarterback in football, this player is usually the highest handicapped and most experienced player on the team. Number 3 attacks the opposing offense and turns the ball up field usually with a pass to the #2 or #1 player. The #3 player must be able to hit long distances with accuracy and also be good at stick and ball control."
> 
> The Duke - "Position Number 4 - Similar to a back in football, this player is most valuable on defense for defending the team's goal, capable of turning the play with a good back shot from defense to offense and moving the ball toward his team's goal."


	4. The Vagina Monologues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains frequent use of the word "vagina". Any Victorians in the audience should have their smelling salts at the ready.

“Alright, Mr. Barrow.  That’s everything for tea,” said Mrs. Patmore as she set the white ceramic plate piled high with finger sandwiches upon the silver platter.  Wiping her hands on her apron, she asked, “What time should we be expecting the guests to arrive?” 

Carefully balancing the large, metallic tray topped with a fresh pot of coffee, a small kettle of hot water accompanied with an assortment of four varieties of dried tea leaves, and the tiny sandwiches that in his mind barely qualified as a meal, Barrow replied, “Thank you, Mrs. Patmore.  Lord and Lady Shrewsbury will be arriving by motorcar presumably by six.  And his lordship has informed me that the Duke’s train is expected to arrive at a quarter past, so I’ll be sending Mr. Stevens down to fetch him and his man from the station.  But I’m afraid that I don’t quite know for certain when we will be expecting Sir Martin Wallace.”  

“Will we be postponing dinner?” asked the rosy-cheeked cooked with a hint of wariness.  Timing was everything when it came to a properly cooked meal, and she already found herself sweating at the thought of the pork, which had been allowed to slowly roast over the course of the day, now going past its prime and becoming bone dry.

“I believe we will be deferring that decision to Lady Mary,” he replied as a gentle reminder that some things—most things—in life were out of his hands.  “But for now, let’s anticipate the usual time.”

Receiving a grunt in response, Thomas bid the cook adieu and headed for the small library.  As he navigated the back staircase leading from the Servant’s Hall to the Upstairs landing, he ruminated over how peculiar it still felt to be the voice of authority Downstairs.  Although it certainly wasn’t his first time acting in the role— _no_ , that was exactly the trouble.  Before, being butler had always been a role to play until the _real_ butler had returned.  And now that he was finally in the position that he had always _assumed_ he wanted to be, he found himself constantly expecting his authority to be called into question, for the audience to begin pelting him with rotten tomatoes as they waited for the real star to take the stage.  It was no wonder that he found himself carrying the spread for tea in its entirety all on his own instead of delegating the work to Andy.  But every time he thought about giving an order, he had to suppress the urge to say, “Now, I know that rescuing me from a pool of my own blood ought to be enough, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you carry this plate of canapés, please?”  

In the grand scheme of things, demanding that the lad carry the tray seemed a might bit petty.

With these thoughts on his mind as he entered the small library, Thomas only took a passing notice of Andy’s appearance.  _Lad looks like he’s desperate for a trip to the loo.  Well, it’s not as though anyone would take him to task if he politely excused_ — His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the tiny hand of George Crawley tugging at the hem of his jacket.

“Mr. Barrow! Mr. Barrow!” cried out the towheaded four-year-old with barely contained excitement.  “You’re a _boy_ so you have a _penis_ ,” he declared authoritatively with unbridled enthusiasm.  _Well, that explains why Andy is turning a lovely shade of aubergine._

Maintaining a look of pure stoicism through sheer force of will, Barrow deadpanned, “Oh, is _that_ what it’s called?  _Thank you_ , Master George.”  And then, taking pity upon the poor footman: “Andrew, would you check with Mrs. Patmore to see if she needs assistance with anything for tonight’s dinner?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow,” the tall, young man managed to gasp out somewhat squeakily as he nearly dashed out of the room.  The door no sooner closed behind him before the sound of laughter could be heard echoing down the hall.

“Poor Andy,” chuckled Lady Mary, “I was a bit worried he was going to give himself a hernia.”  She made a valiant—but ultimately failed—attempt to extract herself from the couch before prevailing upon the good will of her brother-in-law, “Tom, be a dear and fetch me a cup of coffee.”

At the same time that Tom questioned, “Are you sure you should be drinking coffee in your condition?” Robert groused, “Why must he be going around saying these things?  My god, what would your grandmother say if he told her that she had a— had a—“

Looking quite indignant, Mary replied, “Dr. Clarkson said that a cup of coffee is perfectly fine so long as my blood pressure is normal— which it is!  And, Pappa, you’re being ridiculous.  I’m fairly certain that Granny is fully aware that she has a vagi—"

“Mary!” admonished Robert, “That’s quite enough of that language....  You're upsetting your mother." 

_Oh, yes. Lady Grantham looks absolutely scandalized_ , Barrow thought to himself as he carefully maintained his "servant's blank".

As Barrow handed Lady Mary her requested cup of coffee since Mr. Branson still hadn’t made a move to do so, she rolled her eyes and groused, "I'm surprised at you, Pappa. You have a wife. You've had three daughters. T-- _A_ granddaughter.  All of whom, might I add, have _vaginas_."

"Stop saying that word!" whined Robert.

"What word? Vagina?"

"Stop saying--"

"Vagina!"

"STOP SAYING VAGINA!!" Robert bellowed, his face turning red with annoyance.

Andy, who had taken this opportune moment to reenter the room, promptly swiveled 180 degrees on his heels and back out the door, calling down the empty hallway, "What's that Daisy?! You need help with the, uh, thing?! Ok, I'm coming to help you with the thing!"

For her part, Mary was doubled-over with laughter--or as much as it was possible for a heavily pregnant woman to be doubled-over with laughter.  "I _told_ you I could get him to say it!" she called out to Tom, "You owe me ten pounds!"

"Alright, you win. Robert said vagina," the Irishman said with a chuckle as he removed his billfold from his suit pocket. 

" _Tom_ ," Cora warned as the corners of her mouth twitched from barely suppressed laughter. "Barrow must think we're all vulgarians," she added with an apologetic smile directed towards the butler.

"That's quite alright, m'lady. I've found the anatomy lesson to be quite... educational," he replied while biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing 

" _Oh, is_ that _what it's called?_ " Tom snickered under his breath. 

Looking very much put out, Robert paused as he brought his teacup to his lips and grumbled, "Yes, yes. Jolly good joke.  I still don't see why a child needs to know that sort of language."

Mary sighed as she rolled her eyes.  "George wanted to know how the baby got in my belly, and Nanny thought it would be best if we explained using the proper terminology."

Robert began pacing the room in irritation, ”Nanny _thought_ it would be best? _Nanny_ thought it would be--" 

"The Dowager Countess! Lady Rosamund Painswick!” Andy announced at the doorway, blessedly cutting Lord Grantham’s rant short.

Lady Violet arched one of her eyebrows with guarded disapproval, “What’s this about Nanny?”

“Pappa’s upset that Nanny told George where babies come from,” Mary explained with a trademark roll of her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Violet said thoughtfully as she lowered herself onto a winged back chair, “I remember when I was expecting Rosamund.  Your father spent the better part of a month saying _vagina_ to anyone who would listen.”

Feeling utterly grateful that the guffaws of laughter coming from Lady Mary and Mr. Branson provided adequate camouflage for the impropriety of the smirk now playing across his face, Barrow busied himself with bringing the Dowager Countess and Lady Rosamund their teacups.  

“ _Thank you_ , Barrow,” Lady Rosamund seemed to almost gush as she held eye contact with him, “And, how _are_ you today, Barrow?”

Despite his best efforts, Thomas could feel his cheeks flushing, “I’m quite well.  Thank you, m’lady.”

“Oh for god’s sakes, Rosamund!  Must you do that _every_ time you come here?” Robert grumbled with irritation, “Can’t you see that you’re embarrassing the man?”

Touching her hand to her chest in a gesture of feigned confusion, Rosamund replied, “Why whatever do you mean? I just want dear Barrow to know how much he’s _appreciated_!” 

Before her husband could snap back with something that he might regret, Lady Cora cut in with teeth gritted in what might possibly be confused for a smile, “And we do _appreciate_ Barrow.  Greatly.  Thank you for being so… _thoughtful_ , Rosamund.”

Thomas himself had to admit that while initially he had been somewhat grateful for the sentiment behind Lady Rosamund’s gesture, the constant need to assuage her conscience—and why _she_ of all people should feel guilt was beyond him—was becoming increasingly irritating. It seemed that she was determined to ask again and again, each time trying for a different inflection that would _prove_ that she really and truly cared:

> _How are_ YOU, _Barrow?_ (“Fine, m’lady.”)
> 
> HOW _are you, Barrow?_ (“Quite well, thank you.”)
> 
> _How are you,_ BARROW _?_ (“Can’t complain, m’lady.”)
> 
> _How_ ARE _you, Barrow? —_

 

Well, that seemed to bring things up to date.

 

Tilting her head with confusion, Lady Violet asked, “Barrow, do you not feel… _appreciated_?”  She said the word as though it were in a foreign tongue—indeed, what sort of servant would worry about such things as… _ah-pre-shee-ay-shun_?  Wasn’t the honor of being close to splendor and beauty enough?

_Old Lady Grantham doesn’t know. ‘Spose they thought she would find it to be far too scandalous to be served tea by a possible nutter._ The room became suffocatingly quiet until Barrow managed to conjure up a response to what he knew to be her _true_ question, “It is indeed an honor to be here, m’lady.”  As Mr. Carson would have said, the needs of the Upstairs came before the needs of the Downstairs.  And it went without saying, Thomas’s own needs.

Looking satisfied, Lady Violet turned her attentions to the more important issues of the day: “Mary, dear.  Are you quite certain that you wish for _that man_ to come here after the _dreadful_ way he mistreated you?”

“Granny,” Mary replied levelly, “Not being proposed to is _not_ mistreatment.”  Smirking slightly, she continued, “Besides, if I _did_ marry the Duke, we wouldn’t have— Oh, _dear_ , Pappa? Would you like me to have George explain…?” She grinned wickedly at her father, who for his part glared over the rim of his teacup back at her.

Still determined to defend her granddaughter’s honor regardless of the need to do so, the Dowager Countess pronounced, “In my day, a man like that would have been dragged outside and _shot_!”

Lady Rosamund chuckled as she cast a meaningful look towards Robert, “Shot?! _Really_ , Mumma.  You act like the Duke is the first man to ever marry for money.”

“Well, he’s coming,” Lady Mary stated in a tone that made clear that she would hear no more on the subject, “And I, for one, couldn’t be more delighted!  So much has changed since 1912, it would be nice to see a familiar face from days gone by.”  She then turned to the most _appreciated_ man in all of Yorkshire and asked, “Barrow, how are preparations for dinner coming along?”

“Quite well, m’lady.  Mrs. Patmore has timed the pork perfectly for eight o’clock this evening.”

Gently smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand, Lady Mary exclaimed, “Oh, drat! I completely forgot.  Lord and Lady Shrewsbury rang; it seems they’ve been held up by… well, I’m not entirely certain what.  Please inform Mrs. Patmore that we will need to push dinner back by about half-and-hour.  Maybe an hour.”

_Fuck_. “Very good, m’lady.  I will inform Mrs. Patmore.  Any word on when Sir Martin Wallace will be arriving, m’lady?”

“Well, golly.  I can’t say that I know for certain.  Perhaps we ought to just play dinner by ear?”

_FUCK_. “Yes, m’lady.  I shall inform Mrs. Patmore now, m’lady.”

“Thank you, Barrow.”

_Well, at least I know that I’m appreciated._


	5. Reunited and it feels so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for tardiness with this chapter. It just did not want to be written!

“I must say that the countryside certainly has its charms; wouldn’t you agree, Bradford? Just look at those rolling hills! Such lovely greenness. Bucolic: that’s what they call it! A lovely bucolic landscape. Can’t get that in London,” Philip chattered to the point of near gabbling from the backseat of the Renault, unable to still his tongue as his heart began to flutter with anticipation. He was not a man particularly prone to nerves; and yet, every fiber within his being felt alive with electricity. But for what reason, he couldn’t rightly say. Was it fear or hope that possessed him to speak nearly nonstop since the chauffeur came to fetch them from the train station? _You’re making a fool of yourself. If Mother could— Oh, sod what Mother would have said. Do you really think they’d invite you here if they planned to chase you out of town with torches and pitchforks. Well, Old Lady Grantham might._ Philip chuckled softly to himself.

“I’m afraid your man is presently catching his forty winks, your grace,” Stevens announced cheerfully from the driver’s seat, hints of a Scouse accent peaking out from under the feigned formality used by servants attempting to sound less common, Philip noted with dry amusement. “But if you don’t mind me saying, your grace, ‘lovely and bucolic’ fits the bill quite nicely.”

Settling into the tan leather upholstery of the bench seat, Philip smiled pensively to himself as the urge to speak dissipated. He felt this same eagerness—this nauseating mixture of longing and dread—many years before as he made the journey to see his lover one last time before burning the whole fucking thing to the ground. And here he was, about to go sifting through the ashes because some twat on his polo team had said, “I’m sure Mary would be delighted. Always willing to offer a helping hand, our Mary” and Philip found himself feeling nostalgic.

The car wound its way through a slight twist in the road bringing the great house into view, and even from a distance, Philip could see that the entire household was standing in front to greet him.

_See? Neither a torch nor pitchfork in sight._

As Stevens brought the car to a stop a few yards in front of Lord and Lady Grantham, Philip took the slight intermission (before everyone commenced with the cliched theatrics of aristocratic pompousness) to take in the assemblage. Besides Lord and Lady Grantham, there was Lady Mary, looking almost nothing like the near child from fourteen years ago--possibly because she looked as though she had swallowed a small planet. Next to her was a slightly stocky man with light brown hair holding the hands of two young children--a boy and a girl. The mysterious Harold.... Tabletop? _What the fuck is his name? Oh, shite. There's also the one who married the dead sister. Unless this Stevens chap is the same...? Wait no. Tony said the chauffeur-in-law was named Tim Bran-something._

The usual collection of servants were likewise present; although, Philip had no idea if they were all the same ones who were present on his first visit. Not that it mattered much at all. He did vaguely recognize Grantham’s valet—at least Bradford wouldn’t be the only one relying on a walking stick—and he supposed the dark-haired woman standing near by was the same Lady’s Maid that Lady Cora had back then. _Thank god, she’s done away with those idiotic curls. From what I remember, she really did seem like a bit of a cunt— Oh stop it! Thomas said that she’s an ally, didn’t he? Men like us can always use allies, can’t we?_ Philip silently admonished himself for what he (incorrectly) assumed to be an ungenerous thought in regards to the woman he (again, incorrectly) assumed to be Miss O’Brien.

 _Looks like they’re down to just one footman. Not bad. Not bad. Hair’s a bit silly looking, but lad certainly seems to fill out a uniform. Course, it’d be robbing the cradle with that one. Christ, when did I get to be so damn old? Thomas would have laughed at that one. Little shit did call me Methuselah that one time. I suppose it was wishful thinking that I might see_ —

And then a man dressed in a butler’s livery exited the front of the house to join the line-up. Although the man’s ebony hair now glinted and twinkled with flashes of silver, he was most definitely not bald. _And he ain’t fat neither. The wanker._

So it looked like ol’ Thomas Barrow made out alright after all. Butler to one of the largest estates in Yorkshire? Not too shabby. And to think, he was willing to settle for being a valet. _That’s not why he wanted to be with you, and you know it._ But he had no more time to ruminate over the follies of his youth before the loud SNORT of Bradford awakening from his slumber resonated through the car.

“Why yes, I do recall visiting here with your father back in ’63. Had a cracking game of cricket that day,” the octogenarian butler reminisced in response to a question that had been long since forgotten. “Oh, are we here so soon? My word, these modern autos are speedy little devils!”

Philip plastered his best smile upon his face and stepped out of the car as Stevens held the door open for him. “Thank you, Stevens,” he said with a slight tilt of his head to the right, indicating the front passenger door, “Be a good man and lend Bradford a hand. I’m afraid he's a bit… wobbly in his old age.”

“Oh yes, your grace! Of course, your grace!” Stevens replied immediately with clear embarrassment at being caught between the dueling pulls of feudalism and respect for one's elders. Proffering the crook of his arm for support, he helped the frail-looking man out of the vehicle as the Duke looked on. Bradford's limbs shook slightly as he straightened himself as much as his dowager's hump would allow, and Philip couldn't help thinking that the man would topple over like a house of cards in the slightest breeze. _Damn it. When did he get to be so old?_ "Thank you, Stevens. Be a good lad and keep Bradford upright, would you?" Philip half requested, half ordered of the chauffeur as he turned his attention to the line-up.

"Duke! How good it is to see you after so many years," gushed Robert Crawley with feigned sincerity--Philip could almost hear the man's teeth grinding together as they shook hands. There may not have been pitchforks and torches, but the glint in Lord Grantham's eyes certainly made-up for their absence.

"Lord Grantham! It has been far too long, I dare say," Philip replied as he flashed his teeth. _Might as well give the old goat opportunity to mutter 'not long enough if you ask me' under his breath._ "And Lady Grantham! You look as lovely as I remember!"

"Duke," Cora replied. "You remember our daughter, Mary, don't you?" she said as she gestured to--judging from her size--a newly discovered planet in the solar system.

Exercising every ounce of self control that he could muster, Philip refrained from replying _"Mary, who?"_ but instead held out his arms in a gesture that he hoped conveyed the message of _"my goodness, don't you look radiant!"_ Just to be certain, he said, "My goodness, don't you look radiant!"

Smirking coyly, Mary demurred, "You're far too kind, Duke. I look like a whale."

Chuckling slightly, Philip wisely side-stepped the land mine, "You seem to forget, Lady Mary, that I'm on my fourth go around. You won't bait me into saying anything other than that you are the... _second_ most lovely expectant mother I've seen all day."

Letting out a surprised guffaw of laughter, Mary replied, "Goodness! That's right! And how is your wife?"

Philip's eyes flickered over to Thomas as he tried to gauge the other man's reaction, but the butler was steadfastly avoiding eye contact. "Moira? Oh, she looks like a whale!"

"Duke! What a dreadful thing to say!" Lady Mary practically shrieked, her tone plainly conveying the message to _please say more dreadful things._

"Forgive me. My wife and I quite enjoy teasing one another," he amended apologetically, "What can I say that I'm sure you yourself are not already well aware? She wants this, and I quote, 'Bloomin' baby out of my uterus yesterday!' So, fairly typical for a woman seven months gone, wouldn't you say?"

Mary nodded her agreement, "Indeed! I still have another three months to go, and I'm quite ready to be done!" She then shifted to her right and indicated to... Harvey Tabernacle (or possibly Jim Bran...man?), "I don't believe you've met my brother-in-law. Tom, I'd like you to meet the Duke of Crowborough."

"Tom!" Philip replied with just a bit too much enthusiasm as his brain belatedly dredged up the memory of Tony mentioning the name _"Tom Branson"_ in passing.

Tom stuck his hand out, "Your gra-- Ow! Mary!!"

"Oh, sorry Tom. My foot must have slipped."

Tom blinked at her in annoyance for several moments before a look of understanding came over him. "Right." Putting his hand out once more, he amended his greeting, "It's a pleasure to meet you, _Duke_."

Shaking hands with the other man and doing very little to hide his amusement at Branson's social awkwardness, Philip glanced down at the dark-haired little girl and towheaded little boy. "And who might these be?"

Lady Mary beamed as she introduced the children, "My niece, Sybbie, and my son, George. Children, say hello to the Duke."

"Hello," the children chorused dutifully before George declared in a cherubic lisp, "You're a boy so you have a--"

Philip never got to hear the rest of the statement, for Tom's hand had clamped firmly over the child's mouth. "George...let's, uh, _not_ ," he muttered in a voice that seemed to grow increasingly _Irish_ with embarrassment.

Hearing a soft snort of suppressed laughter, Philip looked up to see Thomas gazing at the child with clear affection in his eyes. _He seems to be in a jolly enough mood. Perhaps I should chance it?_ "Say!" _Yes, that sounds quite natural_ "Aren't you the chap who acted as my valet the last time I was here? Now, don't tell me... it's, uh," _shit, should I pretend to forget his name? Do people remember the names of random valets they met over a decade ago?_ "Timothy?"

"It's Thomas," Lady Mary corrected, looking somewhat annoyed. And if Philip didn't know any better, also looking somewhat protective. But that would be ridiculous.

"It's Barrow, your grace," Thomas interjected with a voice bordering on iciness.

Supposing that he may have taken things a bit far in pretending to not recall the name of his one-time-lover, Philip was quite sincere in his reply: "I see that you've risen to the station of butler. Well, done you!"

"Thank you, your grace," Barrow replied as his demeanor softened ever so slightly. "Shall I have our footman show your man to your room now?" he asked as he squinted doubtfully at Bradford.

"Yes, an excellent idea." He then called politely, "Bradford!"

No response.

"Bradford!!"

Still no response.

" _BRADFORD_!!!"

That finally got the old man's attention. "Yes, your grace?"

Feeling the beginnings of a migraine forming, Philip pinched the furrow of his brow. "Bradford, turn on your hearing aid."

"Ah! Yes." He fiddled with the knobs attached to a large box hanging from his neck. "Though I'm not sure why you insist that I wear this contraption. My hearing is perfectly fine." He most probably meant for the complaint to be made under his breath and not as loudly as it was made in actuality, so Philip declined to acknowledge it.

"Andrew, please assist Mr Bradford with carrying the Duke's belongings to the Queen Caroline and then show him to his room. He'll be staying in Mr. Carson's old bedroom," Barrow directed.

"Yes, Mr Barrow," the curly-haired footman replied.

As he watched the two men depart, Philip couldn't help overhearing an odd exchange between Barrow and Lord Grantham:

"Thomas, I thought we already discussed--"

"Yes, m'lord. But I'm perfectly happy in my old room."

"Your old room is fine for a footman. But as butler, you deserve something a bit better."

"I'm not sure about _deserving_ , m'lord."

Grantham looked as though he wanted to say something but remained silent. Why it should matter where a servant slept--so long as it wasn't in one of the guest rooms or on a couch in the library--Philip couldn't glean.

No matter. Still there was one thing of importance that needed to be addressed.

"Uh, Lord Grantham. Barrow. I should probably warn you that, uh, Bradford might not be as much of a _help_ as one might hope. I'm afraid I more-or-less inherited the man after Mother passed, and I haven't had the heart to put him out to pasture." Philip confessed. "To be truthful, I mostly brought him along because my wife would have me castrated if he were to up and croak while I was away on business."

Barrow tilted his head slightly to one side, "Do you think there's a good chance he might?"

"Oh, I doubt it. He's made it this long, hasn't he?" Philip replied gaily as he followed Lady Mary into the house but not before hearing Lord Grantham mutter to Barrow, "He'd better not. Or else his wife won't be the only one looking to have the man castrated."

_Well, that was a jolly good welcome even without the pitchforks and torches._


	6. Animal Husbandry

Lord Shrewsbury stabbed his fork at the air in a minor fit of pique, "But isn't that what the landholders have been doing since time immemorial? What concern is it of ours if a tenant raises sheep or pigs or geese for that matter, so looking as his rent is paid on time?"

 _Dear lord, if I have to listen to one more mention of farming tonight, I just might strangle myself with my bowtie_ , thought Henry Talbot dolefully as he stifled a yawn.

Ever since his arrival, Shrewsbury had seemed determined to argue against every suggestion Charles had made concerning modernization, and Henry mused to himself that perhaps the gentleman imagined Charles would look at his presumably debt-ridden portfolio and declare, " _My goodness! No one could possibly have done better than this_!" It was difficult for Henry to believe that the man was his relation some thirty-eight times removed.

Instead, Charles noted for the third time since the start of dinner that "the fact of the matter is that an estate that fails to take a hands on approach in how its resources are invested is an estate without a future."

"But what of the tenants," came the impassioned reply from a man who only moments earlier had inquired why his problems couldn't be solved simply by raising the rent on said tenants, "are you suggesting that we just toss them to one side in pursuit of something more profitable? Some of the families working my lands have been doing so for generations! Do we not have a duty to provide a means for gainful employment amongst the lower classes?"

"Gainfullness is the very point of this discussion, Lord Shrewsbury! All I am saying is that just as you are being called upon to adapt to an ever changing world, so must the tenants. If the continuing health and longevity of your landholdings means that a tenant finds that he grows wheat one year and chickens the next, then it is in everyone's best interest that he do so. Be it man or beast, the health of this nation's economy requires that _all_ contribute to its productivity. In five year's time, dinners such as this one will be but a quaint relic of the past." Gesturing to the sideboard where Barrow, Molesley and Andy stood ostensibly pretending to be part of the décor (for his part, Thomas was doing a remarkably accurate impersonation of a Wedgwood vase), Charles continued, "And men such as these will not thank those of us responsible for creating employment for holding on to a dying tradition."

That was Mary's cue to try and catch Barrow's eye, so she could offer him a small smile of reassurance. But as usual, the man's face was inscrutable with the exception of a faint twitch at the corners of his mouth. Not for the first time since his marriage to Lady Mary, Henry quietly wondered at the concern his wife carried for the man. And not for the first time, he wondered at how Barrow's brush with death came to be the catalyst for Mary finally moving on with her own life.

Coming up for air after downing his third helping of Reisling, Sir Martin Wallace opined, "But surely there are options beyond farming? The only quality times I wish to spend with a pig is when one is on my dinner plate!" And just to punctuated his argument, he stuffed a heaping forkful of roasted meat in his mouth.  Despite being still hungry only a moment earlier, Henry found that he had suddenly lost his appetite as he watched the red-faced man greedily smack his lips. 

His tone plainly echoing the exacerbation that Henry felt, Charles replied, "My point, Sir Martin, is that an estate that is not generating revenue is simply too great a financial burden to warrant its existence."

Contemplating the possibility of setting the tablecloth on fire as a means for ending the dinner early, the former race car driver turned used car salesman-- _putting that Oxford education to good use, eh?_ \--decided to forgo arson in lieu of eavesdropping upon a quietly whispered exchange between Barrow and Molesley.

_"It's Miss Baxter's half day today. Says she's been wanting to see the new Fairbanks picture."_

_"Is that so, Mr Barrow? Well, I suppose I'll have to ask her what she thinks of it."_

_"She hasn't left yet. Didn't have anyone to escort her."_

_"No? Oh, well that's a shame."_

_"Perhaps you might wish to take her?"_

_"Me? Oh, well, yes. I suppose I could do that."_

_"Wonderful! You can take her after the dessert has been served."_

Giving his glass a subtle tap with his index finger to signal for Barrow to come around with the decanter, Henry murmured to the butler, "I had no idea you were such a romantic."

Smirking slightly, Barrow responded, "I'm generally not, sir. But some people can use all the help they can get." He then continued down the table to refill Sir Martin's glass once more.

"And what are we to do if our land is not suited for animal husbandry? I admit I'm a bit intrigued at the idea of raising a clutch of chickens in my Chelsea flat, but...". The sound of fake laughter coming from across the table drew Henry's unwilling attention. That insufferable Duke of Crowborough had seen fit to mangle Henry's name no less than three times upon their meeting--it was plain to anyone with eyes that the man was jealous. _Well, his folly for casting Mary to one side when she was unlikely to inherit. Serves the fool right that he pines for what he can no longer have._

"Well, you could always invest in autos, like Henry and I," piped up Tom, oh-so-helpfully.

The Duke grinned at Henry--who was in the meantime ruminating over how annoyed Mary would be if he were to punch the idiot in the face--and asked, "Is that so, Harvey?" _Ok, that had to be on purpose._

"It's Henry," Henry gritted out between clenched teeth before continuing with a smile as genuine as the Duke's, "Tom and I have thrown our hats into the car dealership ring."

"Have you now? Well, I suppose you need something to keep yourself busy, eh?"

_How upset could Mary possibly be if I were to break this arsehole's nose? "Whoops! My hand slipped!" Seems plausible enough._

"But I'm afraid I'll have to leave the grease monkey fun to you and Tom. No, I think I'd prefer to invest in something a little more special."

_Yes, I get it. You think Mary should still be swooning over you just because you're a fucking Duke. I had people at my own wedding muttering about that one time the two of you danced at a bloody cotillion fifteen years ago!_

"Something a little more intimate. A clock shop, perhaps?"

_Well, that's oddly specific._

 


	7. Norwegian Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna and Andy wonder if Mr Bradford is pining for the fjords.

"I think he's dead."

"Don't be silly, Andy. He's just sleeping.... I think."

"Nuh-uh, I'm pretty sure he's dead. Hasn't moved from that spot all evening. Ugh. Mr Barrow is going to kill me."

"You're being ridiculous, Andy. He's not... maybe we should put a mirror under his nose just to be sure?"

Anna Bates and Andy Parker hovered over Mr Bradford who--after seeing that the Duke was properly attired for dinner--had laid claim to what was unofficially known as "Mr Barrow's chair," closed his eyes, and hadn't moved since. Given that the man looked as though he were a few decades older than the Dowager Countess, it was all rather disconcerting. In any event, the impromptu autopsy was cut short by the sound of John Bates' chair scraping on the floor as he stood at attention, "Good evening, Mr Barrow."

Anna and Andy both spun around from where they stood examining the potential cadaver. "Evening, Mr. Barrow," they chorused in unison.

Thomas raised a bemused eyebrow at the two before waving his hand for Bates to sit down. "Oh, stop that. You know you don't need to get up every time I enter the room."

Bates smiled and Thomas had to fight against his usual knee-jerk assumption that he was being mocked. In all probability he _was_ , but dwelling on such matters was unlikely to lead to anything productive. "Well, you are the butler," John pointed out.

Sighing as he took a seat at the head of the table--and inwardly groaning, for it was only then that Bates sat down again--Thomas muttered, " _Mr Carson_ is the butler down here. Stand for him, not me."

Bates drummed his fingers on the table as he contemplated the elephant currently absent from the room. "And how is Mr Carson?" he finally asked.

Rather than answering the question directly, Thomas lit a cigarette and as he exhaled a plume of smoke, offered, "I tried coaxing him up here for supper, but...."

"He doesn't like us seeing his hands shake when he eats," Andy supplied.

Casting a sharp look upon the lad, Barrow admonished, "It's not our place to surmise, Andrew."

"Yes, Mr Barrow. Sorry, Mr Barrow." The young footman's cheeks grew crimson with chagrin. It was exceedingly rare for Barrow to scold any of the staff. Indeed, Barrow found himself uttering the phrase "no harm done!" more often than not ever since his return to the abbey. So when an admonishment did come about everyone knew to take it seriously.

It was marked change from how things had been just a year prior.

Guilt immediately began to gnaw at Thomas as he stubbed out his cigarette despite lighting it only a few short moments earlier. "Go on up to the Drawing Room and gather the used drinking glasses. They were still talking about investments and divestments when I left them, so a more thorough going over of the room will have to wait until morning."

"Yes, Mr Barrow," Andy said as he hastily exited the Servants Hall grateful to have a distraction from his faux pas.

Watching the young man leave the room, Bates noted, "Andy tells us there seems to be some hostility between the Duke and Mr Talbot?"

"Did he?" replied Barrow with a raise of his eyebrow. "Sounds to me like Andy is hoping to polish all the silver in the house if he has so much time to spare for gossiping." It was, of course, an empty threat.

Anna tutted at him, "Oh, don't be so hard on him. You were the same at his age."

" _Exactly_! And I think we can all agree that I'm to be taken as a cautionary tale, can't we?" Thomas said with a wink, and the sound of Bates sharply blowing a breath of suppressed laughter out his nostrils indicated the valet's agreement.

Turning to Bates, Thomas drawled, "It's anybody's guess when Lady Mary will be asking for Anna, but his lordship should be ringing for you any minute. Don't think he much enjoys these late night gatherings what with his stomach. And having to listen to Sir Martin drone on when he's three sheets to the wind isn't helping matters."

Bates chuckled, "Yes, sobriety can be a cruel mistress."

A rejoinder was on the tip of his tongue, when Thomas noted out of the corner of his eye-- "Anna, do I dare ask _why_ you're holding a serving tray under Mr Bradford's nose?"

Grimacing with embarrassment from being caught out acting foolishly, Anna mumbled, "Andy was worried that Mr Bradford--"

A loud SNORT from the man in question interrupted Anna mid sentence, eliciting a mild yelp of surprise that did nothing to interrupt the marathon snooze session of the grey-haired old man but _did_ manage to wake the hitherto silent occupant of the small bassinet situated next to John's chair.

"Hush now, you," John softly cooed to his son as he gently lifted the mewling infant into his arms. He began to bounce and sway, but the child was having none of that nonsense and was now commencing in a full-throated wail.

"Looks like he only has eyes for Mum," Thomas said with a wink.

Handing the baby over to Anna, John readily nodded his head in agreement. Once cradled in his mother's arms, the infant began mouthing at her bodice in a frantic quest to fill his belly. "Patience, Junior," Anna muttered as she unfastened buttons to grant access.

The first time she had needed to nurse John Junior upon returning to work, Anna had timidly asked Barrow if he minded, a question that by all appearances seemed to utterly baffle the newly (re)hired butler:

> "Huh? Why are you asking me permission to feed your baby?"
> 
> " _I could feed him in the lavatory if you prefer._ "
> 
> "The lavatory? Anna, that's _disgusting_."
> 
> " _Oh, well where should I...?_ "
> 
> "Well, I would assume the table in the Servants Hall since that's where people are _supposed_ to eat. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to work on the invoices for Lady Grantham's charity dinner."

Barrow's reaction had come in sharp contrast to Mr Carson's, who upon spotting Anna nursing in what was known with increasing inaccuracy as "Mr Barrow's chair," turned quite pale and backed out of the room. And since it took a full ten minutes for Mrs Hughes to stop laughing when he suggested that she might have a little "chat" with the new mother, the matter was firmly put to rest with half the men on staff remarking on how _lovely_ the ceiling of the Servants Hall looked (and the other half--namely John and Thomas--calling them idiots).

The truth was that Thomas initially _did_ share Carson's reservations, but not wanting to feed into stereotypes about men of his nature had resolved to not make a fuss. As it turned out, the whole thing was much ado about nothing since the infant's head blocked the view of anyone who dared or cared to look.

The all too familiar sound of one of the bells jingling drew the attention of the three servants (the fourth was still sleeping peacefully), but Barrow was incorrect in his prediction that Lord Grantham would be the one wishing to retire early.

"The Queen Caroline," Bates observed and then with some reluctance added, "I suppose we ought to wake...?"

Looking at the elderly man and remembering the number of times he had turned a blind eye to Thomas's many rendezvous with the Duke that summer so many years ago--although neither man was entirely certain if the butler was acting out of feigned or true ignorance and neither was willing to risk asking--Thomas shook his head. He knew that Philip had returned to Downton Abbey for a reason and that reason _wasn't_ Lady Mary's pigs. His stomach began to twist into a knot.

"No, let him sleep. I'll look to the Duke," Barrow said and was met with no argument.

He left the Servants Hall and headed up the back staircase, passing Andy along the way. Coming to the hidden doorway leading to the gentlemen's gallery, he took a deep breath and held it all the way to the door of the Queen Caroline where he at last exhaled, feeling more than a little light headed. Steeling himself for whatever lay on the other side, he knocked on the door.

" _Come in_ ," said a voice from inside the room. Philip's voice.

The door creaked on its hinges as Thomas pushed it open.

"I was hoping it would be you."


	8. It's really more a Venn diagram than a triangle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice, long chapter to hopefully make up for the long wait for an update! I had a long checklist of things that needed to be said during this first meeting, and it took a while to figure out when/how all of it was going to be said.

Philip's heart quickened its pace at the sound of a gentle rapping upon the door of his bedchamber.  Swallowing against the lump that had suddenly found its way into his throat, he took another sip of brandy from the crystal tumbler in his hand--a wee bit of liquid courage--and softly beckoned for whoever was on the other side of the door to enter.  When the door did finally open, relief washed over him as he gazed upon the man standing silhouetted in the frame.  "I was hoping it would be you," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly with both sincerity and rapidly vanishing sobriety.

 

Thomas entered the room and closed the door behind him.  He slowly strolled through the room,  gazing about until his eyes came to rest upon the silver framed photograph that Bradford had placed upon the bedside table earlier in the evening.  He took the portrait in his hands to inspect it more closely, and the faces of three young children--two boys and a girl--silently looked back at him.  "I guess it really was just a dalliance," he muttered in a voice so soft and strained that Philip had to struggle to hear it.  He set the photograph back down before turning to face the Duke.  "How may I be of service to your grace this evening?" he asked, his servant's blank skillfully masking his emotion—whatever emotion there was to be masked.

 

"Thomas, please...." Things were going about as well as he should have expected, but Philip still found himself to be disappointed. "Don't be like that.  You know how it is for someone in my position--I'm expected to produce an heir.  I thought that maybe… maybe we could enjoy ourselves a bit?”  _Oh, that doesn’t sound the least bit desperate._

 

" _Two_ sons, a daughter, and another on the way" came the flat, rhetorical response from the other man.

 

Philip drained the caramel colored liquid from his glass and poured himself another measure of courage. Was he really going to allow Barrow the higher ground?  Like _hell_ he was!  Rolling his eyes in exacerbation, he lectured, ”Thomas, _please_.  You know perfectly well that these things can be complicated.”

 

"I'm not sure it's wise for us to be so familiar with one another, your grace."

 

"You're angry with me," Philip concluded, wondering if his voice really sounded as petulant as it did to his own ears.

 

Thomas took several false starts before finally replying with a sigh that seemed to be drained of energy, ”I'm not angry, Philip.  I just don't understand why you're here.  I don't understand what it is that you want from me."

 

 _Well, at least we're back to our given names, so that's a start._ "I swear that I had no idea you would be here when I was invited. But once I _saw_ you... Well, I thought we could put the ugliness of our past behind us.”  He flashed what the more sober part of his brain knew to be a cocky smile but that the drunken part insisted to be coy and demure, “Didn't you hear what I said at dinner about wanting to invest in a clock shop?"

 

"I nearly missed it, what with your subtlety," Thomas deadpanned sardonically before executing a roll of his eyes that would have had Lady Mary taking notes.

 

Philip found his mood quickly turning sour.  ”I suppose you must despise me, don't you?" _As if what happened wasn't just as much--_ "As if what happened wasn't just as much your doing as mine.  You did try to blackmail me."  The alcohol was making his head hum and his words were falling from his mouth faster than his mind could think.

 

For a moment, Thomas stood silently staring at Philip as though he were looking at particles of dust floating in a sunlit room.  ”You know perfectly well I was never going to use those letters against you."

 

 _Oh, now you’ve done it.  You’ve gone and made the little shit mad. Look at how his cheeks are flushing._   Philip smirked, "No, I didn't think you'd be dumb enough to try to ruin me with something that was just as likely to incriminate yourself."

 

"That's not what I mean," Thomas mumbled as he fidgeted with the cuff of his livery jacket.  "I realize now that it was foolish and naive of me to have believed it, but those letters were the first--and will probably be the _only_ \--time someone has said that he loved me.  Of course, I know better now."  He shrugged slightly, "So, _no_.  I wasn't really going to blackmail you with them."

 

 _Well, don’t I feel like I just stuck my head up my own arse._ Had Thomas responded in anger, Philip would have been prepared for it.  Lord only knew that he had spent the better part of the evening--when he wasn't asking Talbot if he remembered to wash his hands between oil changes before heading up to dinner--thinking of how he might verbally spar with the sharp-tongued and sharp-witted man.  But this wasn’t…. _Best to just change the subject_.  He smiled at Thomas and enthused quite sincerely, “Well, look at you, Mr Butler!  You certainly have come up in the world, haven’t you?  You used to make such a fuss about how you were bumping your head on the ceiling around here!  And here you are, the man in charge of everything and not a day past 30!”

 

“I’m 34.”

 

“And not a day past 34!” Philip quickly amended.  “How’d you swing it?”

 

Laughing as he spoke, Thomas explained, “Nothing much.  Just had to slit my wrists and suddenly they go from wanted to be rid of me to not wanting to be without me.”

 

Out of reflex, Philip began to laugh along with the other man before his mind had adequate time to process what had been said.  “Thomas, that’s not— that’s not funny, Thomas.”  He frowned, perplexed at the morbid turn in the conversation.

 

Grimacing with chagrin, the dark haired man nodded in agreement, “Yes.  You’re right.  Sorry about that.  Guess I’m just in a bit of a mood.  Um, I had actually left for a while to be butler elsewhere—“

 

“Ah! They couldn’t live without you!” Philip interjected.

 

“But then Mr Carson needed to retire and, well—right place; right time—I came back for Lady Edith’s wedding and, well….”

 

“Don’t sell yourself short.  It really says something about how much they value you here that they’d want to poach you from another household once you’d decided to move on.”

 

“I guess.”  He frowned a bit and an air of melancholy seemed to wrap itself around him.

 

 _Damn, I suppose he’s thinking about when I…._ ”Thomas, I'm-- Look, I'm sorry about how things ended between us.  But I really would like for us to...." He didn't finish the sentiment because, truthfully, he had no fucking idea _what_ he actually wanted, be it romantic or platonic.

 

Thomas's facial expression softened a bit, giving the other man hope.  But that hope was quickly squelched when he said, “Philip, I just don’t think I’m really in a place in my life right now where I can….”  He didn’t seem to know how to finish his own sentiment either.

 

Philip sat down on the bed and fiddled with an embroidered flower on the cream-colored duvet.  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.  Not when you have Valentino milling about the place,” he grumbled dejectedly.

 

Thomas boggled at Philip as though the duke had sprouted a second head. “Huh? What? _Valentino_?”

 

“Look, I’m happy for you both.  Really I am. I suppose—“

 

Thomas didn’t get to hear whatever it was that Philip was supposing because he was laughing too hard.  “Oh my _GOD_!  Is that why you were making a complete arsehole of yourself during dinner?  You think that Mr. Talbot and I…?!”

 

 _You don’t have to rub it in._ “Fine, I’ll admit that he’s a decent enough looking chap—“ 

 

Between what were now turning into slightly hysterical fits of giggling as he struggled to catch his breath, Thomas gasped out, “You are _such_ an idiot.  Mr Talbot and I are _not_ together in any way, shape, or form.”

 

Philip scoffed, “Of course you are.  He’s _exactly_ your type.”

 

“What do you mean, he’s exactly _my_ type? He’s married to _Lady Mary_!  If he’s anybody’s type, he’s _her_ type!”

 

“Exactly!  _Your_ type is _Lady Mary’s_ type.”

 

Thomas snorted derisively at the proclamation and in response Philip gestured towards himself with a sweep of his hand, “I present to you _Exhibit A_.”

 

Shaking his head, still giggling from the unexpected jolt of bemusement, Thomas observed with a wry grin, “A sample size of exactly _one_ does not make a pattern!  There is _nothing_ going on between me and Mr Talbot.”

 

Philip blinked at him as his brain attempted to process this new bit of information. “Seriously?”

 

“I’m not exactly _his_ type.”  And when Philip scoffed, he pointed out once again that “He’s _married_ to Lady Mary.”  Which only resulted in Philip scoffing even more forcefully.

 

“So what?  If circumstances had been different, _I_ might have married her.  And you and I both know what my type is.”  He attempted to wink at Thomas, but several glasses of brandy had thrown the coordination of his eyelids off, so it was really more of an unsynchronized blink.

 

“That doesn’t mean that Mr Talbot is _our_ type,” Thomas countered as he poured himself a generous helping of whiskey.  

 

“So sweet.  So naive.  Mark my words, Lady Mary is one of those women who will continually go through life wondering why her husband’s breath smells like cock.”

 

“You’re as vulgar as you are delusional.  You do know that don’t you?” He said with a perfectly executed wink before taking a sip from his glass…

 

…which he immediately snorted out his nostrils upon hearing Philip counter, “Give me a couple days, and he’ll be begging us to spit roast him.”

 

“For Christ’s sake!” Thomas sputtered as tears started to stream down his face, “I remember you having a filthy mouth but—“

 

 _Bet you can_ — “Bet you can make it filthier” — _make it filthier. Did I just say that out loud?_

 

Shaking his head as he laughed, Thomas answered, “Yes, you did just say that out loud.  How much have had to drink?!  I would cut you off, but this is far too amusing.”

 

Philip grinned a bit sheepishly, “I suppose I could have paced myself a bit better.”

 

“Yeah, a bit.  Do you talk to that wife of yours like that?”

 

“Who? Moira?”

 

“Why? Do you have some other wife I don’t know about?” He paused for a moment, and it was clear that he wanted to ask a question but was too embarrassed to ask.  “So, what’s that like then?  Being with, Moira?”

 

“Are you asking me about sleeping with a woman?”

 

Flushing scarlet, Thomas shrugged, “Yeah, I suppose.”

 

“Oh, it’s not so bad.  I mean, once you’re up for the task—“

 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Thomas interrupted with a groan.

 

Clucking his tongue in mock annoyance, Philip admonished, “Such impertinence!  As I was saying, once you’re _up_ for the task, it really isn’t so…. What, you’re saying you’ve never even tried it with a woman?!”

 

Flashing a grin, Thomas demurred, “What can I say?  Gold star queer.”

 

“Well, bully for you.  But really? Not even a little experimentation?” he prompted.

 

Tilting his head back and forth a bit before responding, Thomas offered, “Well, I did get dragged to a brothel by my medical corp regiment before shipping out.  The whore was a lovely young woman by the name of Daphne.  We played several rounds of Old Maid while she periodically screamed about what an absolute stallion I am.  I became quite the legend amongst the other men.”

 

Patting the bed with his hand, Philip beckoned, “Come over here, would you?” and grinned gleefully when Thomas finally relented and sat down next to him.  

 

He gazed at Thomas for a moment before saying in all sincerity, “It really is lovely to see you again.  I thought about you, now-and-again, over the years.  About how you were doing.  I admit that I even called here during the war.” He changed his voice to what he liked to think was an excellent cockney accent ( _it wasn’t_ ), “Allo? Is Tommy Barrow there, then? It’s ‘is mate from back ‘ome. Just wanted ter check ‘ow ‘e is.”

 

Wrinkling his nose as though he were smelling something rank, Thomas squawked, “What the _bloody hell_ sort of accent is that supposed to be?”

 

“What do you mean? It’s cockney!”

 

“I’m from _Manchester_!  And, _no_ , that is most definitely _not_ a cockney accent.  I’m sure Mr. Carson was _overjoyed_ to receive a call from an old chum of _Tommy’s_.  I wasn’t exactly very popular around here back then.”

 

“Ah, that would explain the grumbling.  And the swearing.”  He smiled at Thomas, “I’m really quite pleased that you made it out unscathed.”

 

Holding his gloved hand up, Thomas replied, “ _Almost_ unscathed.”

 

His eyes lighting up with curiosity, Philip begged, “Ooh! Can I see it?” And when Thomas obliged, he wrinkled his nose and earned himself a glare of annoyance when he then declared, “That’s _disgusting_!  Now, tell the truth, did you do it yourself?”

 

The smile vanished from Thomas’s face, and Philip found himself squirming under the other man’s gaze.  “Absolutely not.”  But before Philip could formulate an apology, Thomas continued in an exaggerated falsetto, “There was the _cutest_ German sniper on the other side of No Man’s Land.  But when I waved ‘hello’ to him, he _shot_ me! Can you believe that?!”

 

Dissolving into giggles, Philip squeaked out, “The brute!  The least he could have done was give you his number!  Although I suppose he just about got yours, eh?”  He giggled a bit more before repeating his earlier sentiment, “I really am pleased that you made it out of there.”  Breaking eye contact with Thomas, he felt himself blush as the all-to-familiar sense of shame washed over him, “And I’m certainly not one to talk— Mother made sure that I never came close to the trenches.  I suppose you must find me truly despicable now.”

 

Thomas was silent for several beats, and Philip was certain that what he feared was indeed the truth.  But then… “For two years, I walked into No Man’s Land to retrieve the bloody and broken bodies of men and boys fighting a war that, to this day, nobody can seem to explain to me.  So if you honestly think that I would have preferred to have seen you on my stretcher…?”  He shook his head and gave a low a chuckle.

 

Feeling emboldened, Philip whispered, “May I kiss you? I would very much like to kiss you.”

 

Thomas closed his eyes.  “I need you to promise me that this won’t be a repeat of last time.  I just— I just really can’t go through—“

 

“Thomas….”

 

“No, I mean it, Philip.  I need you to promise that you won’t be telling me about how you’ll whisk me away.  About how we’ll have this lovely little life together.  It’s just— It’s not something I can—“

 

“Thomas, I know that I probably shouldn’t have told you—“

 

“Promise me.  Whatever happens this weekend—and I’m not saying anything _is_ going to happen, mind you—whatever happens, it’s just— it’s just us having a good time.  It’s just… _physical_. No declarations of undying love that we both know you don’t….”

 

“Just physical,” Philip echoed with a frown before chuckling softly.  “Well, yes, I suppose Moira wouldn’t be particularly open to me bringing home a souvenir.  Ok, fine.  _I promise_.  No declarations of undying love.  Now can I kiss you?”

 

Thomas nodded his head and in response, Philip pressed their lips together.  At first the kiss was quite chaste, but as he felt the other man’s body relax, the aristocrat opened his mouth slightly wider and was delighted as his counterpart did the same.  Reaching up, he slipped the dark haired man’s coat off from his shoulders before moving to his throat to loosen his bow tie.  As he slid his tongue into Thomas’s mouth, he moved his hands down to Thomas’s cuffs and began to unfasten the links—

 

Suddenly, Thomas yanked his hand away and jumped away from the bed.  “What are you doing?!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide.

 

Feeling quite confused, Philip stuttered out, “I was— I was— Undressing you? Sorry, I thought we were of the same mind about— Look, if I overstepped, I apolo—“

 

Thomas shushed him as the sound of voices could be heard out in the hallway.

 

_“Why, no, Sir Martin.  I just can’t believe you ate the whole thing.  Yes, that really is a remark—“_

 

_“My dear Mr Branson, you must understand that it was a goose stuffed with a duck that was stuffed with a chicken.  Do you have any idea how much fowl that is, lad?”_

 

_“That certainly is a lot of bird.  Yes. I…”_

 

As the voices faded, Thomas whispered, “We need to be careful.  Somebody might hear me and want to know what I’m doing in here.”

 

“Why should that matter?” Philip wondered, “They’ll just think you’re valeting for me.  Nothing extraordinary about that.”

 

Thomas sighed.  “There’s something you should probably know.”

 

“What?”

 

Swallowing as he began to wring his hands, Thomas whispered, “A few years back.  I was outed.”

 

Feeling quite certain that his heart had stopped beating, Philip could only manage to whisper back, “Shit.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“But they don’t seem to…” But he knew that such reassurances were meaningless to men of their sort.

 

“The unspoken agreement has been that I go back into the closet and we all just pretend that no one is the wiser about me.  But I just can’t—“

 

“No, no.  I understand.  I do.”

 

“This has been the only real home I’ve known, Philip.  I don’t know what I would do if—“

 

“I understand, Thomas.  I saw the way you looked at the children.  I could see how much you love them.  Believe me.  I understand.”

 

Thomas nodded with bittersweet appreciation.  “I just can’t take any risks.  There’s too many people in the house and all it takes is one of them to decide he doesn’t wish to _tolerate_ my presence…”

 

“It’s ok.  We’ll find some place nice and private.  OK?  Some place nice and private where we won’t need to worry about anyone’s tolerance.  How does that sound?”

 

Thomas smiled and nodded his head shakily.  “Yeah, that sounds nice.  I should— I should probably go now.  I actually have work that needs doing.  You think you can manage to dress yourself for bed?”

 

“Yeah, I can manage.  Goodnight, Thomas.”

 

“Goodnight, Philip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, so please do leave some!


	9. Shenanigans

“What a fucking wanker,” Henry growled as he clamored into bed.  “Mary, darling, I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered someone so utterly insufferable.”

 

“Mmm? Who?” 

 

“What do you mean, _who_?  That idiot Duke!  ‘Say there, Horace… Harvey… Herbert… Horatio, change any tires lately?’ As if I can’t see exactly what he’s doing.“

 

“Mmm? Doing?”

 

“Are you even _trying_ to pay attention?”

 

“Sorry, dear.  I’m just worried about Barrow,” murmured Mary from within her cocoon of seven pillows—two for her head, one to support her belly, three more for her back, and another stuffed between her thighs. 

 

“What else is new?” Henry muttered under his breath, although not cruelly.  “Darling, I don’t believe I’ve every met someone quite as preoccupied with the general happiness of her butler as you.” He grunted a bit as he clung halfway off the edge of the bed, trying desperately not to fall off. _Three more months. You can do it, Henry.  Just three more months.  She can’t possibly get any bigger….  Can she?_ If anyone were to claim that he was managing more than four hours of sleep in night for the past six weeks, he would have called them a liar. “So what’s the matter? He seemed perfectly fine at dinner tonight. Even set ol’ Molesley up on a date—though I’m not certain the man nor the lady are aware of the fact.”

 

“I don’t know.  It’s just a feeli— Oh, Molesley and Baxter are stepping out together? _Good Lord_ , it’s taken taken them long enough.  Mumma has been practicing her ‘surprised’ face for whenever Baxter announces that Molesley has gotten around to popping the question….  I’m starting to think we should just set a date at the church and let them suss out that they’ve been married a few weeks after the honeymoon is over.”

 

* * *

 

 

At that very same moment, Thomas sat at an empty table in the Servant’s Hall, working his way through a pack of cigarettes while Mr Bradford continued his marathon snooze fest by the fire.  He had just lit his fifth one of the evening when the backdoor creaked open.  “Well, look who the cat dragged in,” he greeted warmly, albeit with a touch of snark, “I was wondering if we’d need to send out a search party for the two of you.”

 

“Good evening, Mr Barrow,” Molesley said quietly but with a serene smile upon his face, “My apologies for bringing Miss Baxter back so late.  It was just such a lovely evening and I suppose we just lost track of the time.” 

 

The butler tutted, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and muttered in a stage-whisper, “When I _think_ of the shenanigans the two of you might get up to….”

 

Molesley’s eyes widened slightly, but before he had a chance to object that shenanigans hadn’t even been close to being gotten, Baxter laid her hand gently on his arm and whispered, “He’s teasing, Mr Molesley.”

 

From the chair that may-or-not be known as “Mr Barrow’s chair,” a loud and indignant _harrumph_ could be heard.  “You don’t mean to tell me you allow _fraternization_ amongst the staff, do you Mr Barrow?”  From the way Mr Bradford uttered the word, one would have thought that the pair were presently rending at each others garments, making passionate love on the floor of the Servant’s Hall.

 

Miss Baxter, with her cheeks flushing, quietly demurred that “Mr Molesley and I are good friends, Mr Bradford.”  

 

Thomas snorted and openly rolled his eyes before his eyes suddenly lit up,  “Say, Mr Molesley, when will the school term be ending?”

 

Looking upwards to the ceiling as though hoping to find the answer there, Molesley eventually replied, “Examinations are scheduled for the week of June 6.”

 

“So you’ll be done with your grading by, say, June 26?” Barrow asked in an offhand manner.

 

Nodding his head, the man answered amicably, “Yes.  Is the family planning a dinner for that day?”

 

Seeming somewhat distracted, as though it were Molesley who brought up the topic and not he, Barrow replied, “Dinner?  No.  Well, maybe.  Do you own a morning coat?”

 

“A morning coat?  Why, no. No, Mr Barrow, I don’t.  Will I be needing one?”

 

“Hmm? Well, no matter about the coat.  I’m certain that we can get you sorted.”

 

Nodding his head as though he and Barrow had reached some sort of agreement, Molesley replied, “Well, I suppose I should be heading back to my cottage.”

 

Miss Baxter smiled at the man and requested, “Wait a moment in the courtyard for me and I’ll see you on your way, Mr. Molesley.”

 

Looking even more scandalized, Bradford exclaimed as the backdoor closed behind the former valet turned former road paver turned former footman, “He has a _cottage_?”

 

“What’s all this talk of June 26?  Her ladyship never mentioned anything about a dinner  to me,” Miss Baxter queried with just a hint of accusation in her voice although she was smiling pleasantly enough.

 

Looking quite smug and pleased with himself, Thomas answered, “Oh, I decided to go ahead and schedule your wedding.  No need to thank me.  I’m sure Mr Molesley will catch on eventually.”

 

“Mr Barrow, how many times do I have to tell you? Mr Molesley is a good friend.  I assure you that he is not interested in entertaining romantic notions,” Miss Baxter objected with as much force as she could muster—which wasn’t much given her gentle nature.

 

“You allow a young woman under your charge to spend time with a man who has a _cottage_?!” Mr Bradford objected once more, apparently not gleaning to the obvious chasteness between the school teacher and the lady’s maid.

 

Endeavoring to keep a straight face, Barrow deadpanned, “It’s actually all part of his lordship’s plan to reduce hiring costs.  Marry the staff off to one another and you’ve got the next generation of hall boys and scullery maids ready to go.”

 

The old man nodded his head contemplatively, “A bit unorthodox….”

 

* * *

 

 

Henry chuckled as he endeavored to keep from falling out of bed by bracing himself with one leg thrown over the edge.  “You see? Everything is fine.”  He stretched slightly and rolled over on his side, only to find that his pillow was now missing.

 

“I still don’t know,” Mary said as she hugged pillow number eight, “He’s just seems a bit… _anxious_ , I suppose?”

 

Shrugging his shoulders a bit as he tried unsuccessfully to make himself comfortable, Henry noted, “He’s always seemed a bit high-strung to me, if I’m to be perfectly honest.”

 

“That’s only because you first started coming around here right when Pappa was planning to make Barrow redundant.  I’ll admit that I didn’t know him very well back then— I still don’t— but there was a time when I could always tell that his mind was working away, that he was thinking of something just a bit wicked to say” she laughed to herself before continuing “but bit his tongue to keep from being sacked.”

 

In the dimness of the bedroom illuminated with only the light of the waxing moon filtering through the window, Mary could see a sly grin stretch its way across her husband’s face.  “Something just a bit wicked?  Now why does that sound familiar?”

 

Smiling at the memory, Mary concurred, “Sybil used to say that if she didn’t know any better, she’d think that Thomas and I were separated at birth.  Coming from anyone else, it would be an insult—although I’m not entirely certain towards which of us.  I suppose I see his happiness as a offshoot from my own?”

 

The room was silent for several long seconds and then: “Well, to be fair, there are limits to how happy someone like that can reasonably expect to be.”

 

—

Out in the courtyard, Miss Baxter and Mr Molesley stood together in the moonlight.

 

“I don’t know why you don’t want to tell him,” Mr Molesley whispered, his breath coming out in a swirling cloud in the chill of the night air, “He seems to be terribly keen on the whole thing.”

 

“Yes, I know.  But Thomas is happiest when he thinks something is his idea.”

 

“Always the schemer, our Mr Barrow, isn’t he?” Molesley smiled as he nodded his head in understanding.  “Well, I suppose we at least have a date set, don’t we?”

 

“Yes, I suppose we do,” Miss Baxter replied with a soft conspiratorial laugh.

 

“Good night, my dear,” Molesley whispered, “Thank you for making me the happiest man alive.”

 

“Good night, Joseph,” she whispered back as she placed a kiss upon his cheek.

* * *

 

 

Henry waited for a response, and when none came, he knew he had stuck his foot in it.  “I’m not saying he should be _un_ happy—“

 

“No. Just that he shouldn’t be as happy as anyone else has the right to be.  Do I need to telephone Bertie to have a word with you?”

 

Henry groaned knowing full well that he was in an argument that he wouldn’t be winning any time soon.  “Mary, I don’t condemn the man for his choices in life.  I’m just saying that sometimes when we make choices that go against the conventions of society, we have to live with the consequences of those choices.”

 

The mountain of pillows piled next to Henry audibly scoffed.  “You don’t honestly think that it’s a choice for him?”

 

“All I know is that plenty of chaps who ‘experimented’ while at Eton subsequently grew up to have wives and children.  And I can tell you that a fair number of them down at the RAC are not what anyone would call ‘ladies men’ but they still manage to—“

 

“But they still manage to live a lie.  Is that what you want for Barrow? A life spent alone or a life living a lie?”

 

 _For Christ’s sake, Mary.  He’s the bloody butler. I couldn’t give a fiddler’s fart what he does in his personal life.  Why are we even having this conversation?  I just want to sleep.  For the love of God woman, just let me go to sleep!_ “No, of course not.  I know how fond you are of him.  So, if his being happy will make you happy, then of course I want the same thing.  I’m just saying that you need to be reasonable with your expectations.”

 

“I’ve never been reasonable with my expectations and I don’t plan to start now.”


	10. I thought you'd be happy.

The clanging of his alarm clock awoke him before the first rays of sunlight had even managed to stretch their way across his spartan bedroom.  Another hour until Paul, the lone hall boy, would make his rounds with the morning wake up call. The practice seemed rather antiquated now that Thomas thought about it—who was even left to rouse aside from himself (and he was already pulling on his trousers) and Andy? _Mustn’t forget Mr Bradford; he most certainly will be wanting that wake up call_.  His ears were still burning from being read the riot act by the old goat for not waking him when it was time to ready the Duke for bed.  And so strict instructions had been given to a blurry-eyed Paul, who had been asleep for at least two hours by then, to be certain to wake Mr Bradford bright and early the next morning.  Thomas felt a slight pang of guilt for browbeating the lad over such a simple task, but he had been thrown for a loop when Bradford had groused, “a broken lock on the men’s lavatory! I must say, Mr Barrow, standards seem to have fallen by the wayside since my last visit to Downton Abbey!”  

 

No one ever spoke about the broken lock.

 

The gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to the row of cottages.  As he wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to keep out the chill of the morning air, he thought about the first time that he had come knocking:

 

> “Hello, Mrs Hughes.  Is Mr Carson in?  I apologize for coming so early, but I’m afraid that I am in need of a bit of guidance.” They both knew the answer, of course.  It had been two days since Mr Carson had left the cottage, so where else would he be?  But they still wanted to keep up the subterfuge that things were as they had always been—that Charlie Carson wasn’t feigning an upset stomach because he was too embarrassed to admit that his hands now shook too much to properly shave.
> 
>  
> 
> Raising an eyebrow—for she knew a lie from Thomas Barrow when she heard one—Mrs Hughes nevertheless ushered him inside.  “Charles?” she called out, “You have a visitor.”
> 
>  
> 
> “Damn it, Elsie,” grumbled a lump from under a lilac quilt dotted with tiny clusters of flowers (hyacinths, perhaps? Thomas had never been particularly well-versed with flora), “I told you that I don’t feel well.”
> 
>  
> 
> “Hello, Mr Carson,” Thomas greeted in as cheery a voice as he could muster.
> 
>  
> 
> The lump sat up and Barrow couldn’t help noting—and not for the first time—the change that had come over the man in the time since his forced retirement.  At first, he had seemed happy to pass along the mantle of _butler_ to Barrow.  But now…. Thomas was quite certain that the man had dropped at least a stone-and-a-half.  _Much too thin_ , he thought.  People like Mr Carson were supposed to be larger than life.
> 
>  
> 
> “Mr Barrow? What are you doing here?” the former butler asked wearily.
> 
>  
> 
> Holding up his bag, Thomas explained with all the sincerity he could muster—and he was indeed sincere, albeit for reasons other than the ones he now proclaimed—that “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Mr Carson.  But you see, it’s been some time since I’ve had an opportunity to valet for anyone, and I’m afraid that I’m a bit out of practice.  I realize it probably seems a bit silly, but I’d hate to see a guest end up poorly shaven because of me….”  He felt the squeeze of Mrs Hughes’s hand upon his shoulder as she quietly turned away to leave the room.  He didn’t dare look at her, for he was quite certain that there were tears in her eyes—the bullheadedness of her husband’s stubborn pride would never allow him to accept a woman’s help with his daily ablutions.  But Barrow…?
> 
>  
> 
> “Why, yes, Mr Barrow,” Carson said in an indulgent tone, “that does sound like an excellent idea.  We must not fall out of practice with these things!”
> 
>  
> 
> And that was how Mr Carson came to help Thomas Barrow learn how to properly shave a man’s face, how to properly knot a tie, and how to properly fasten buttons.

 

“I’m telling you, Mr Carson, manners have gone by the wayside these days,” Barrow said as he whipped the shaving soap into a foamy lather before brushing it onto the man’s face, “You would have been astonished to hear what—”

 

Often finding himself starved for the interactions of the upstairs, Carson looked _almost_ ready to swallow the bait but not quite, “Mr Barrow, I hope you aren’t meaning to gossip about the family’s affairs?”

 

Schooling his face into a look of pure innocence, Thomas replied, “Oh, no!  Of course, not Mr Carson.  I suppose I’m just being a bit protective of Lady Mary what with that duke being around again.  When I think of the way he treated her….”  He made a silent apology to Philip for throwing him under the proverbial bus. 

 

But Mrs Hughes had warned him that today was one of the _bad_ days, and it was true that Mr Carson’s hands were presently shaking without stop.  Thomas didn’t wish to think upon it, but he was certain that he detected a newfound rigidity in the man’s body, as though his muscles were tensing against an inevitable wave.

 

“I’m sure you can handle the situation without my help, Mr Barrow,” Carson said as he closed his eyes wearily, “And while I appreciate your attempts to make me feel useful, I’m afraid that the world simply has no use for an old man like me.”

 

Any other man would have allowed Mr Carson his privacy to mourn for his lost vitality and sense of purpose; but Thomas Barrow had spent his entire adult life throwing himself one pity party after another, and he’d be damned if he was going to let old caterpillar ‘brows slide down that same slippery slope.  “Mr Carson, if you don’t mind me saying, I know what it’s like feeling as though you have no place.  And believe me when I say that those feelings will eat you alive if you let them.  They damn nearly ate me, I can tell you,” he said softly but earnestly.

 

The room was silent for several long moments and Barrow wondered if perhaps he had overstepped.  His _relationship_ with Carson—and he was never quite certain how to define or describe the constantly shifting sands of their interactions—his relationship with Carson was never one founded on sentimentality.  Perhaps Carson was regret—

 

“Do you remember what you said to me after…?” 

 

Thomas swallowed as he felt his throat constricting in apprehension, “Yes.”

 

“I thought you were angry—and looking back upon things, you probably had every right to be—but when I asked, you said—“

 

“I know what I said, Mr Carson,” Thomas quickly interrupted.

 

> The young man lay ghostly pale in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.  Dr Clarkson had left only a few scarce minutes prior, disaster having been narrowly averted, leaving instructions for Barrow to be kept calm and in good company.
> 
>  
> 
> Could Charles count himself as part of that good company?  He wasn’t quite sure.  Nevertheless, “Hello, Thomas.  I’m glad to see you’re awake.  You gave us all quite the fright.”
> 
>  
> 
> He could barely make out the whispered response: “I’m sorry, Mr Carson. It wasn’t my intention.”
> 
>  
> 
> It was a butler’s duty to offer words of sage advice to his staff, and so Carson puffed himself up just a bit as he counseled, “Now, I admit that I have, perhaps, been a bit too… forceful with you as of late.  And I do apologize for it.  But causing yourself harm because you find yourself angry with me…. Thomas, I’m sure you can agree that—“
> 
>  
> 
> “I wasn’t angry.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Of course, he probably thinks that he’s being reprimanded._ “Thomas, it’s quite all right for you to feel that things have been unfair,” he said indulgently, “But as I was saying harming yourself to get back at—“
> 
>  
> 
> “I wasn’t angry, Mr Carson,” Thomas repeated once more, this time more forcefully.  And then he said something that shook Carson to his foundation, not because it was cruel or vengeful (as Carson had anticipated) but because it was spoken with utter sincerity.  “It’s just that… I thought you’d be—“

 

“I know what I said,” Barrow repeated, unwilling for the memory to take root in his mind.  “I shouldn’t have said that.  It was ungenerous of me.”

 

“But you believed it at the time,” Carson prodded.  It was clear that the conversation from ten months prior was weighing upon the man’s conscience.  

 

“At the time, I believed that my existence brought nothing but misery to everyone—myself included.  And, I suppose I thought if I couldn’t find happiness for myself… there wasn’t much sense in dragging everyone else down with me, was there?” He chuckled slightly despite having said nothing that was humorous.  “It was foolish of me to think that way.  I know that now.  And it was unfair of me to think that removing myself wouldn’t just shift my burden on to everyone else.”

 

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Removing myself so that I’m not a… not a _burden_?”

 

“Well… isn’t it?”

 

Charles pondered to himself for a moment before commanding, “Tell me the real reason you want me to come to the abbey.”

 

“I told you: I’m worried about Lady Mary—what with her condition and all—having that duke throwing his weight aro—“

 

“No, it’s not.  Tell me the real reason.”

 

“I—“  Thomas was about to double down on his fib when Carson caught his eye.  “I want you to come to the abbey because I don’t want to be sort of man who profits from another man’s unhappiness.  I know that I’m only in this position because of your misfortune, and it just doesn’t seem right to me.”

 

“Mr Barrow, you’re in this position because it was time for me to step down and it was time for you to step up.  I apologize for being too stubborn to admit it back when it may have saved you a great deal of heartache.”

 

Feeling mollified, Thomas quietly entreated, “Mr Carson, please do come with me.  Let me feel like I’m bringing happiness to _somebody_.”

 

Sighing in equal parts defeat and relief, Carson replied, “Help me with my coat.”


	11. This Chapter Brought to You By... Rihanna!

Sticking out her bottom lip, Lady Mary folded her arms across her chest as she pouted, “Absolutely ludicrous that I should be expected to remain behind.  Why, it’s hardly even drizzling!”

 

Lady Cora didn’t look up from her embroidery as she wearily reminded her daughter that “Tom is just as capable of showing the new farming equipment to your guests.  And besides, it wouldn’t do anyone any good if you were to slip on some muddy trail far from home.”

 

Mary scowled as she muttered under her breath, “I’m with child—not an invalid.”

 

Giving her daughter a reproachful look, Cora quietly replied, “All it takes is one fall.”  Her tone clearly conveyed that there would be no more discussion on the matter—and to Mary’s credit, there wasn’t.  Instead, she turned her attention to Barrow.

 

“Barrow, you’re going to throw your back out if you keep allowing— George, stop hanging from Mr Barrow’s back like a monkey,” she scolded.

 

“I’m not a monkey, Mummy,” the little boy chirped at his mother, “I’m a jockey and Mr Barrow is my pony!”  In the meanwhile, Barrow made “clip-clop” noises under his breath as he “trotted” over to Lady Grantham to refill her teacup.

 

Lady Grantham chuckled, “I remember you doing the same thing with Carson when you were George’s age.  Didn’t she, Carson?”

 

A fond smile playing across his face, Carson confirmed with a simple, “Indeed, m’lady.”

 

“And why did you ever stop?” Lady Mary inquired teasingly.

 

“Because I threw my back out, m’lady.” At this revelation, Mary pointed her finger at Barrow and grinned her best _I knew it!_ smile. “And,” Carson continued, “it is every butler’s greatest honor and privilege to spoil the children as much as he can.”

 

“Indeed, Mr Carson,” Barrow confirmed with a smile, “Very well—“

 

But a sudden flash of lightning followed several seconds later by a low rumble of thunder interrupted him.

 

“Well, golly, it seems to be coming down like cats and dogs out there,” Mary observed, finding herself suddenly grateful to be inside next to a roaring fire.  “I do hope Tom and Henry don’t get too wet out there.” 

 

Wincing slightly as he crouched down to allow George to clamor down from his back and ignoring the smirk that Lady Mary immediately flashed at him, Barrow walked over to the window to observe the storm.  “Looks like it’s right on top of them.  I’ll have Andrew start filling the hot water bottles and checking that the fireplaces in the bedrooms are all properly— Ah, Andrew! There you are, I need you to—“

 

“Mr Barrow,” the young man interrupted anxiously, “It’s Mr Bradford—he’s gone.” Jerking his head towards this window, he continued, “I think he may have headed out in _that_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Henry Talbot was checking his pocket watch for the fifth time in as many minutes as he ambled at the rear of the small entourage that was following Tom Branson back from their tour of Yew Tree Farm like ducklings waddling after their mother.  “So, as you can see,” Tom explained, “By investing in animals that can be sustained by the crops already grown on your lands, animal husbandry becomes nearly—“

 

But a sudden flash of lightning followed only seconds later by a crash of thunder interrupted him.  The sky opened as though fingers were tearing through a cloth of gray flannel and a torrent of rain began to fall.  Shouts of dismay—both genuine and jocular—rose up amongst the group.  A voice snickered into Henry’s ear, “My god! Rain?! In _England_ of all places?!” He turned to see the Duke grinning at him with a torrent of water dripping from his nose and eyelashes, his hair swiftly plastering itself to his head like a wet mop.  

 

In spite of himself—for the man had been an absolute git the evening prior—Henry found himself grinning back.  “Indeed! I’ve always considered Yorkshire to have the balmiest of climates,” he replied before shouting above the din of squawking aristocrats, “Oy! Tom! What say you, we head back to the abbey now?”  The rain was starting to let up almost as quickly as it had begun, so Henry wasn’t about to take any chances that the lesson on animal husbandry might have a chance to continue.  The only animals he was interested in were the horses under the bonnet of his car.

 

As the group started to make its way back to Downton, a hunched figure could be seen hobbling towards them.

 

“Oh, _fuck me_ ,” the Duke muttered under his breath as he came to recognize who it was. “ _Bradford_ , what in _god’s name_ are you doing down here?!” he gritted at the man, and Henry could hear in his voice the same undercurrent of worry that Mary would use whenever she thought that Carson was taking on too much.

 

“Your umbrella, your grace,” Bradford said, presenting the item as though it were the Holy Grail.

 

Rolling his eyes, the Duke muttered as he unfurled the umbrella, “I’m not a child, Bradford.  Why, it’s hardly even drizzling.”  He sniffed slightly as he held the canopy above the old man’s head and grumbled, “You’re going to catch your death running around out here.”  And he gave that smirk that Mary had whenever she was pretending not to care.

 

“Shall we?” Tom asked, a strong hint of concern coloring his voice.

 

And so they all trudged back to the abbey.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bronchitis,” Dr Clarkson proclaimed a few hours later.  “Given his advanced age, he shouldn’t be moved until the fever has thoroughly broken.”

 

The Duke pressed his lips together in a thin line and knitted his brows.  “But he’ll be alright, yes?” he inquired as he bobbed his head up-and-down as though doing so would force the doctor to agree.

 

“He is quite elderly, your grace,” Clarkson pointed out, although not cruelly, “But you sought help immediately, and that puts the odds in his favor.  Best thing for him is plenty of rest.”  He then turned to Lady Grantham and declared, “My lady, if I may use your telephone, I will ring for the hospital to send up a pair of nurses to tend to Mr Bradford during his convalescence.”

 

Permission readily granted, Dr Clarkson left to complete his task.

 

Grimacing slightly to himself, the Duke addressed the elephant in the room—that is to say, _himself_ —“I must thank you all for your hospitality as I am quite certain you were looking forward to having your home to yourselves.”  Indeed, the other guests had already left by that point.

 

“Please don’t even think of it,” Lord Grantham said with warmth—if not for the Duke himself then for the tenderness in the care that the Duke clearly held for his aged servant.  “You are welcome to stay for as long as is needed.”

 

“Thank you,” the Duke replied both to Lord Grantham and to Barrow, who silently handed him a cup of tea without needing to be asked.  As Mary watched, she couldn’t help admiring—and wondering at—how attuned Barrow was to the needs of their guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not included: Bradford singing to Philip, "you can stand under my umbrella ella ella eh eh eh..." on the walk home.


	12. The Jam Jar Necklace

“Are you _certain_ you’re doing it right?  Perhaps someone should come and double—“

 

“Yes, _your grace_ , I’m quite certain,” interrupted the thoroughly exasperated Nurse Benson, who was in no mood for aristocratic handwringing, as she continued to check Mr Bradford’s vitals.  “Temperature seems to be stable.  Still a bit higher than I like to see, but it hasn’t gone up since yesterday.”

 

Philip paced the attic bedroom as though he were a barrister cross-examining a witness, before sniping, “ _Quite certain?_ Is that so? Well, you seemed to have taken his temperature awfully quick.  How can you be certain that you got an accurate reading, hmm?  Now, you may be saying to yourself, ‘ _Oh, look.  Just some old man.  Doesn’t matter much if he shuffles off this mortal coil._ ’ But I expect that he be—“

 

“Your grace.”  This time it was Barrow who interrupted.  “I’ve known Nurse Benson since the war and she’s the best there is.  I can assure you that Mr Bradford is in excellent hands.”  Truthfully, Thomas could just barely remember the woman changing bedpans and bringing around freshly boiled linens—but Philip didn’t need to know that.

 

A quiet groan from the bed’s occupant put a halt to any further objections the Duke might have made. “Master Philip, let the young lady do her job,” Bradford wheezed, his eyes still tightly closed.

 

The “young lady”—who as far as Thomas could tell, had gone through the “change of life” some time around the First Boer War—snorted before announcing that she would be heading to the hospital to fetch additional supplies.  “I’ll be back within the hour,” she said, to which the Duke waved his hand dismissively.

 

“Oh, dear me,” the old man groaned, “Please forgive me, your grace, I seem to have forgotten myself.”

 

Philip rolled his eyes before tutting, “What you should be apologizing for is running out in the rain like a damned fool.  What if you slipped and broke a hip, hmm?  You’d be stuck in some backwater hospital for months, and what would I do then?”

 

“I do apologize, your grace.”

 

Nodding to himself, the Duke muttered, “Well, you ought to think about how these sorts of things can affect those around you.”

 

“Yes, your grace.”

 

Battling between dueling urges to either hug Philip or smack him upside the head, Thomas decided that retreat was probably his best option, “Your grace, if you have no more need for me, I shall return to my duties.  Do you require assistance finding your way back to the main gallery floor?”

“Hmm?  Oh, no, I should be quite fine.  Thank you, Thomas,” the Duke replied distractedly.

 

Wincing at the overfamiliarity and its potential for consequences—though to be fair, Mr Bradford didn’t appear to react in the slightest—Barrow left the room, closing the door on his way out so as to provide the Duke and his man a bit of privacy.

 

The room was silent for a time, before Bradford inquired with equal measures of hesitation and warning, “He _is_ aware that you are a married man?”

 

“I couldn’t possibly imagine what you are trying to insinuate,” Philip hedged, avoiding eye contact.

 

And, yet, the old man managed to hold him in the grip of his steady gaze. “Are _you_ still aware that you’re a married man?”

 

“Yes, of course, I am!” Philip snapped irritably.  “Why are you making a fuss now?  You never used to mind him.”  

 

“You weren’t married then.  Forgive my impertinence for saying so, but you have far more at risk than you did as a youngster, your grace.”

 

Picking up a stray feather that had worked its way out of one of the pillows on Bradford’s bed, the Duke distracted himself for the moment by running a finger along its soft white edge.  “Are you going to say something to him?”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of telling another butler how to manage his household,” the old man demurred.

 

Philip snorted derisively, “We both know that’s a baldfaced lie.” Cocking his head to one side, he noted with a slight smirk, “And, yes, you are being terribly impertinent.  I really ought to sack you for this.”

 

Nodding his head solemnly, Bradford replied, “Well, as I’ve said before, should you find that you no longer have use for me, you know where I’ll be headed.”

 

“Brighton,” the Duke supplied.

 

“Brighton,” the old man confirmed, his breath coming out as a slight wheeze.

 

“You would visit the Palace Pier and the Old Aquarium, and eat candy floss all day.  And you wouldn’t have to worry about your teeth rotting since the last of the originals was pulled back in the noughties.  Yes, I do recall you saying something about that.  Too bad for you that I don’t think I’ll ever _not_ have a use for you.”

 

“Excellent, your grace,” Bradford replied with the barest hint of a smile on his face as his eyes began to flutter sleepily.

 

Still stroking the feather, Philip asked softly, “Can I still have your support in all this, even if you think I’m being a fool?”

 

“You will always have my support, Master Philip,” Bradford replied as he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

A duet of delighted squeals could be heard from the two children whom Barrow was presently dangling halfway upside-down as he strode into the library where Lord Grantham was attempting to teach Tiaa the command for _Roll Over and Play Dead_ while Tom and Mary huddled in a corner discussing what was—rainstorms and sick butlers not withstanding—a successful weekend.

 

Laughing at the sight of his daughter and nephew squirming and kicking their legs, Tom inquired with a broad grin, “And what’s this?”

 

With his servant’s blank just barely held in place, Thomas replied, “Good afternoon, sir.  I caught a couple of fish playing on the back staircase.  Thought Mrs Patmore might fry ‘em up for supper.”

 

“I’m not a fish!!!” shrieked Sybbie. “Daddy, tell Mr Barrow we’re not fish!!”

 

“Mmm, fried fish.  Will there be chips as well, I hope?” Tom asked.

 

( _“Roll over! Roll—  No, I said ‘roll over.’ That’s ‘shake hands.’ Yes, I know they’re very similar but— please stop trying to kiss me when I’m explai— yes, yes, I love you, too.”_ )

 

“Chips?  Well, naturally there’ll be chips, sir.  Can’t have fish without—“

 

“We’re not fish!!!” George protested. 

 

Blinking with mock confusion, Barrow tilted his head to one side to look down at the boy and asked, “You’re not a fish? …. Are you quite certain?”

 

“ _YES_!!!”

 

“Well…. what are you then?”

 

( _“Alright, let’s try again. Roll over! Roll— Tiaa! Stop licking your— That’s quite undignified, I hope you reali— Ugh! Please stop trying to kiss me.  I know where that mouth has been and I want no part of— Blech!”_ )

 

Huffing with the sort of indignation that only a five-year-old can muster, Sybbie bellowed, “We’re little kids!!!”

 

“What? You’re little— Oh, my goodness, I am _so_ embarrassed.  And here I thought I had caught a couple of fish and it turns out to be children. Well, there’s egg on my face,” Barrow tutted to himself as he carefully deposited his “catch” on the floor and then straightening up again, his back sounding an audible _craaaaaaaack_ in the process.

 

Looking genuinely disappointed, Tom sighed, “So no fish and chips, eh?” And when Mary wrinkled her nose, he muttered to her, “Not everything needs to be _foie gras_ and canapés.  It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy real food every once in a while.”

 

“I’m sure Mrs Patmore would be happy to add it to a future menu, sir,” Barrow attempted to offer, but Lord Grantham, having abandoned his dog training endeavors for the present moment, shot the idea down, saying that they best not bother Mrs Patmore with such an…. _unorthodox_ request.  All Thomas could do was offer a _well, I tried_ shrug to the Irishman once his lordship’s back was turned.

 

Meanwhile, Sybbie was quite busily whispering something in Mary’s ear.  “Pretty please, Aunt Mary?” The little girl pleaded, her hands held together as if in prayer.

 

Giving her niece an affection smile, Mary began to explain, “Sybbie, sweetheart, the Duke has a great deal on his mind right now and I’m not sure—“

 

"What's this?” interjected the man himself as he came into the room and grinned at the dark-haired little girl.  “Is your auntie accusing me of being a spoilsport? Surely not!”

 

Lady Mary smiled at him, “My niece wishes to put on a little play for you.”

 

“A play?! I love the _the-a-ter_ ,” Philip over-annunciated each syllable of the word in a deep and booming voice as though he were performing on stage at the _Globe_ , causing Sybbie to begin hopping on one foot, absolutely thrilled that the Duke was so keen on her idea.

 

“Are you quite certain?  You really don't have to—“ Mary began to query but stopped when the Duke held up a hand.

 

“Bradford is quite well cared for and the nurses have assured me that they will let me know the moment anything should change.  About all I could do for him right now is listen to him snore—and that’s easy enough to do from the opposite end of the estate!” He laughed with gusto before dropping his voice to a hush in order to candidly confess to her that “to be quite frank, I think I could use the distraction.”

 

Mary nodded and offered him a small smile, inquiring softly, “He’s been with your family for quite some time, yes?  Just yesterday, Carson and Barrow were remarking on how much butlers care for the children in the family.  I suppose it’s only natural that we feel the same—I’m certain that I’d be quite lost without Carson.”

 

Looking over Lady Mary’s shoulder at Thomas, who was listening to something Sybbie was saying with rapt attention, Philip explained wistfully, “I suppose it’s a bit of a relief to have someone around who will accept us despite our flaws—I know, I know, you’re _shocked_ to hear that I have flaws—and of course, it was always great fun as a child to have an adult around who was a rubbish disciplinarian!”

 

Seemingly reading the Duke’s mind, Mary turned around to see Thomas crouched between the children, his entire body shaking with barely suppressed laughter at whatever it was they were saying to him.  Smiling at the sight, Mary noted, “Yes, I’m afraid the children all have dear Barrow wrapped around their little fingers.  I dare say that it is physically impossible for him to say ‘ _no’_ to them.”

 

Laughing in agreement, Philip called over to Sybbie, “Tell me, love, what play will you be putting on for me?”

 

Grinning triumphantly, Sybbie trilled, “ _Cinderella_!”

 

Philip’s eyes widened as he clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, ”My _favorite_!  And will you be playing the lead role?”

 

“Yes!" Sybbie answered as she began to hop from one foot to the other.  “And George will be the wicked stepsis—“

 

“I’m a boy!  I should be the step _brother_.  And why do I have to be wicked?” George whined.

 

“—and Tiaa will be the prince,” Sybbie continued, ignoring her younger cousin’s protests.

 

“ _Who’s Tiaa? One of their little friends?_ ” Philip whispered to Mary.

 

“ _Tiaa’s the dog._ ”

 

“ _Oh, yes.  Of course. How silly of me._ ”

 

“And Mr Barrow says that he’ll be the fairy godmother!”

 

Lord Grantham, for some inexplicable reason that no one in the room could possibly suss out, began to choke on the water he was drinking.

 

“Are you quite alright, m’lord?” Barrow asked innocently.

 

Coughing to clear his throat, Lord Grantham asked with one eyebrow arched nearly a foot above his head, “Fairy godmother?”

 

“Why, yes, m’lord,” Barrow answered with a deadpan expression, “Some people might say that I was _born_ to play Miss Sybbie’s fairy godmother.”

 

* * *

Word quickly spread that _Thomas Barrow_ was willingly taking the piss out of himself for the children’s amusement, and so the audience for the evening’s production was practically a full house with the members of the staff standing at the rear of the room and the Duke, Lord and Lady Grantham, and Tom, Mary, and Henry seated on the library’s various couches, davenports, and winged back chairs.  

 

A screen temporarily liberated from his lordship’s changing room served as the “backstage curtain” behind which a butler, two children, and a Labrador Retriever were crouched.  

 

“Daddy,” a voice hissed, “ _Daddy_.”

 

“Oh, right,” Tom said getting up from his seat so that he could face the audience, “Ladies and Gentlemen: thank you for coming to this, uh, inaugural performance of _Cinderella_.  And now, on with the show!”  He then returned to his seat on the couch next to Mary who gave him a nod and a wink. _“Excellent work, Mr Announcer,”_ she whispered.

 

Out came Sybbie, wearing a potato sack over her clothing and carrying a small broom and dustpan.  Following close behind her was George with his arms crossed over his chest—for he was still rather miffed about being cast in the role of an evil stepsister—grumbling, “Cinderella, clean my room.”

 

Imitating the sounding of a trumpet with a “Durp-dee-perduuuuuuuuur”, Barrow stretched out to hand George a large cardboard sign with the word “InVitAtiON” written upon it.  “Ha. Ha. I get to go to the ball and you don’t,” George monotoned before giving his cousin a slight shove that may or may not have been part of the script.

 

Throwing an arm across her forehead, Sybbie suddenly wailed as she flung herself from one end of the room to the other, “Oh, _how_ I **wish** I could goooooo to the ball!  But, _alas_ , alack, I am **full** of woe! Woe is me! Woe, _woe_ , **woe** is me!”

 

( _“My god, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a moving performance,”_ whispered the Duke, “ _Oh, wait, she’s still going_.”)

 

Flopping onto the floor, Sybbie cried out with her arms raised to the ceiling, “What _ever_ will I **do**!  Oh, _won’t_ somebody, **somewhere** heeeeeeeeeeeelp me?!”

 

Hearing his cue, Thomas strode out from behind the changing screen and was—as he had thoroughly anticipated—immediately met by titters from the adults in the room.  _Oh, they haven’t seen nothing yet_.

 

His costume (carefully curated with help from Miss Baxter, who had been sworn to secrecy) consisted of a pink, ruffled bedskirt wrapped several times around his waist like an improvised tutu, a necklace made from ribbons and a trio of clinking, half-full jam jars, and a blue and red gingham patterned scarf serving as a “wig.”  But what really had everyone giggling was the fact that the front of his shirt was stuffed with two decidedly lopsided lumps.

 

During his visit to America with Lord Grantham, Thomas had had the great pleasure of spending time in some of New York’s more “adventurous” night spots—little underground clubs where those who fell outside the social norms of sexuality and propriety could enjoy time together.  On his first evening on the town—and still feeling rather weary of being potentially outed after his misadventures with Jimmy—Thomas found himself in one such club quite by accident.  But before he had a chance to scamper home with his tail between his legs an absolutely charming drag queen by the name of Talulah draped an arm around Thomas’s shoulder and cooed, “Why what is a darling little mensch like you doing in a place like this?  Now, you come along with your bubbe Talulah.”  And come along Thomas did.  Several times in fact.

 

Pillow talk for Talulah—who turned out to be a day trader (whatever the heck that was) by the name of Ira—consisted of teaching Thomas random bits of Yiddish while vigorously breeding him into the mattress.  And while he was never able to recall any of the French that he was expected to commit to memory during the war, _this_ linguistics lesson has cemented itself in Thomas’s brain.

 

Channeling the best impersonation of a Borsht Belt comedian that he could muster—which frankly wasn’t very good since his entire frame of reference was Ira’s stories of growing up in the Catskills—Barrow paused for a brief moment before asking, “ _Oj vey_ , what’s with all the _kvetching_?”

 

(“ _Oh, my goodness,_ ” gasped Cora, “ _He sounds just like my Aunt Gertrude._ ”)

 

From where she still lay on the floor, Sybbie sat up and held both hands to her face, “ _Who_ are **you**?!” 

 

“Who do you think? I’m your fairy godmother, who else?  And by the way, would it kill you to write?”

 

(“ _Yes, definitely Aunt Gertrude_.”)

 

“I waaaaaant to GO to _the_ **ball** , but my eeeeevil stepsis—“

 

“STEPBROTHER!!!” 

 

“—won’t LET me! Oh, woe is me! Oh, woe, oh woe, oh woooooooooooooe is me!!”

 

“Won’t let you go to the ball? They should be making the ball come to you!” Fairy Godmother Barrow tutted.  “Won’t let you go to the ball?  In my day, we— Oh, wait,” he said, suddenly switching to his regular speaking voice. “Sorry. One of my bosoms seems to have fallen down,” he said before turning around to fiddle with his wardrobe.

 

“Happens to some of the best of us!” tittered Mrs Patmore from the back of the room as the audience dissolved into giggles.

 

Turning back around to reveal a scone in his hand, Barrow unscrewed the lid to one of his jam jars and then, pulling out a butter knife that he had tucked into his shirt sleeve, began spreading raspberry jam on the scone before taking an enormous bite.

 

What had started as quiet giggling was now outright laughter.

 

“You have any more of those? I’m a might bit peckish,” called out the Philip.  And, as if on cue, Barrow reached into his shirt for a second scone, which he tossed underhand to the Duke.

 

Catching the baked good single-handed, Philip laughingly thanked Thomas, “Cheers!”

 

Turning back to Sybbie and now speaking in his normal voice, Thomas said, “Alright, love, let’s see if we can get you sorted…”

 

* * *

Just as Barrow had hoped, the afternoon’s performance had put a smile on everyone’s faces.  _Another step away from them seeing you as the old Thomas_. Best of all, Philip was now smiling without any worry-lines around his eyes belying his mood.

 

“I must say, Barrow, you’re a man of many hidden talents!” the Duke said with a grin that, if anyone else knew enough to look for it, was bordering on indecent as he drained the contents of his brandy glass.

 

“Thank you, your grace.  But I don’t believe I’ll be heading off to Hollywood just yet,” the butler demurred as he refilled the glass.

 

Glancing over his shoulder to ensure that the others in the room were presently occupied, Philip whispered into Thomas’s ear, “I’ve found the perfect spot for us to meet.”

 

But unbeknownst to the Duke, someone else in the room was making her own plans for a rendezvous .


	13. Moonlight Rendezvous for Two

“Oh, darling, how I wish I could be with you always, but I'm afraid that no one would ever approve or understand,” Lady Mary murmured with fond devotion as she placed a gentle kiss, “I promise, my love, as soon as it is possible, I'll come for you and—“

“I should have known I'd find you here.”

Mary whipped around to find her husband standing only a few short yards behind her. She smirked at him, “So, I guess I've been found out.  I'm sorry Henry, but you just can't satisfy me the way he can.”

“Damn it, Mary! I keep telling you that you can put a saddle on me and ride me around the house any time you like!” Henry half-bellowed in reply.

Nearly instantaneously, Mary burst into laughter and had to wrap her arms around the neck of her horse, Valiant, to steady herself.  The beast, a chocolate brown stallion, whinnied softly as he examined the small burlap sack that his mistress had brought with her for any additional apples.  

Having dropped his pretense of anger, Henry laughed in earnest as well.  “I never really thought of myself as the jealous type, but I must say that I don't believe I've ever seen you give _me_ the sort of longing gaze that you're giving that _horse_!”

Smiling coyly at her husband, Mary noted, “Well, you never mentioned wearing a saddle before.”  Strolling slowly over to him with a coy smile, she draped her arms around his neck and whispered huskily into his ear, “Perhaps I should take you for a ride now.”

Before he could manage to stop himself, Henry grimaced causing Mary to take a step back in confusion.

“You don’t want me?” she asked with tears brimming in her eyes.

“Darling, it’s not that.”

“Well, what is it then?” she inquired, growing more upset with every passing moment.  “You think I’m fat don’t you! You think I’m a big giant whale and—“

“Darling, you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Well, then why don’t you want to—“

“Darling—“

“Tell me!!”

“ _I don’t want to because I’m worried I might hit the baby in the head and give him brain damage_!!” Henry finally blurted out.

Mary blinked dumbfounded at her husband for several long moments before her chin began to quiver as she was overcome with laughter.  “That’s not how—“ she paused for a moment as she realized that she may have, perhaps, possibly tinkled herself just a little bit “—that’s not how it works!”

Grimacing in utter and complete embarrassment, Henry couldn’t help but agree, “I know that.  I really do.  But I can’t help _think_ it!”

Not a woman to be easily deterred, Mary gave him her most demure smile.  “Well, perhaps there’s something I might give you a hand with?” she asked as she pressed her palm to the front of his trousers.

Henry grinned.  Really, who was he to deny his wife when she wanted to be so… _handy_?

 

Settling into a pile of fresh hay in an empty stall across from Valiant, the couple began to kiss—at first lazily but as both of their arousals began to grow, with more and more passion.  Mary’s fingers deftly moved to unfasten the button closure of Henry’s trousers before slipping inside his pants.  He gasped as he felt her small, delicate hand wrap around his shaft and allowed his eyes to flutter shut as Mary began stroking his cock.

 

“I told you that I found the perfect spot for us to be alone,” an oddly familiar voice said.

 

Henry’s eyes flew open and he was shocked to see through the slats of the stall’s door the Duke and Barrow.  _What on earth are they doing out here at this time of night?  Well, I suppose that’s it for the hand jo—_ But before Henry or Mary had a chance to make their presence known (or to put Henry’s cock away for that matter), the two men suddenly began kissing one another with a passionate urgency.

Henry’s mouth fell open in shock and as he glanced over at Mary, he saw that she was in much the same state.  _We really should say something,_ thought Henry with his cock still in his wife’s hand.  _We really should let them know that we’re here_ , he thought as he watched Barrow drop to his knees, yank the Duke’s trousers to his knees, before seemingly swallowing the other man’s cock down to the root. _We really should— Dear, lord, does Barrow have no gag reflex whatsoever?_

But they didn’t say a word or make a sound and Mary’s hand was _still_ on his cock.

“Wait, wait, wait,” the Duke suddenly groaned as he hauled Barrow up to his feet. “Please tell me that you got yourself ready.”

_Got himself ready? Ready for— oh, right._

Dropping his trousers around his ankles, Barrow grinned. “Why don’t you check for yourself?” he asked as he turned around and bent himself over a feeding trough, his body angled so that Henry was offered _quite_ the view.  Mary must have had a similar view because her grasp around Henry’s cock tightened just a bit.  And it tightened just a bit more when the Duke slid a finger inside of Barrow, who began to moan with desire.

 

Prior to joining his regiment at the start of the war, Henry—as was expected of all new inductees to His Majesty’s Armed Forces—underwent a full physical examination that included, among other tests, an inspection of the health of his prostate.  While it technically wasn’t _instantaneous_ (three-and-a-half seconds wasn’t exactly instantaneous, was it?), quite soon after Dr Folger inserted his index finger into Henry’s rectum and began wiggling it around as though he were hoping to strike gold, Henry experienced the most intense orgasm of his entire life.  Of course, as pleasure swiftly gave way to horror and abject humiliation, he immediately began to apologize profusely to the doctor, who just rolled his eyes and muttered, “And I didn’t even need to buy you dinner first.”

Watching Barrow arch his back like a cat in heat while the Duke began to work three of his fingers in-and-out of the man’s arse like a piston, Henry was suddenly struck by the thought that he really ought to pay a visit to his physician and had to bite down on his bottom lip to stave off the fit of hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt.  It didn’t help much that Mary still hadn’t removed her hand.  _Poor thing must be in a state of absolute shock—_ He glanced furtively at Mary to see how she was handling the unexpected debauchery. _Oh…. Never mind._   Unless, shock took the form of dilated pupils and a slightly open mouth, Mary most definitely was _not_ feeling traumatized by what she was watching.  _Better be careful, Henry ol’ boy.  She looks about ready to toss you over the gate with orders to join in._

Suddenly, Mary gave a slight gasp and her pupils grew even larger.

Henry looked back at the pair to see the Duke with his face between Barrow’s arse cheeks and his tongue— _Well, never had a doctor do_ that _during a physical._

 

And that was when Mary’s hand began to move.

Henry had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from moaning just as the Duke admonished Barrow with a laugh, “Pipe down, would you?”  And despite it being utterly irrational, Henry nearly apologized for his lack of decorum—just in time to watch as the Duke’s cock slid smoothly into Barrow’s body.

 

_Holy fucking— I don’t even— Cock — Arse— Brain no longer—_

 

Deciding that he might as well enjoy his apparent aneurism, Henry allowed his eyes to flit between Mary, who stared in unblinking curiosity and fascination at the display in the other stall, and Barrow’s cock, which leaked a steady stream of pre-cum each time the Duke thrust into him.  _I wonder what that would taste like._ The thought came intrusively and unbidden, but Henry couldn’t make himself care enough to feel shame—not with the way Mary’s hand continued to stroke him.  And when Barrow’s entirely body suddenly shuddered as he ejaculated onto the floor of empty horse stall, Henry and the Duke found themselves quickly following him.

Wiping himself with his handkerchief, Henry quickly worked to make himself presentable while the Duke, in the meanwhile, stayed buried inside of Barrow with a dopey grin upon his face.  “You know, I really do love you,” he purred.

 

And that's when it all changed.

 

“Get off of me,” Barrow growled as his expression darkened in an instant.

Not quite picking up on the change in mood, the Duke instead snuggled closer to him.  “Just a sec. I just want to—“

“Get the _fuck_ off of me,” Barrow snarled, and there was no mistaking his tone this time.

Quickly scrambling backwards in the confusion, the Duke sputtered, “I don’t— I don’t understand— I thought you’d be—“

As he pulled his trousers back up and began to tuck in his shirt, Barrow snapped back, “You fucking _promised_ me.  You promised that you weren’t going to be saying shite that you don't mean!  You fucking _promised_.”

"What? That I— that I—“ the Duke ruffled his hand through his hair as though the answer could be found in its follicles, “You’re mad that I said I love you?”

“Don’t fucking say things that you don’t mean, Philip!” Barrow nearly shouted as his face contorted with anger, fear of discovery the only thing tempering his volume.

“But I thought it’d make you happy,” the Duke mumbled.

“Leave me the _fuck_ alone,” came Barrow’s answer as he stormed out the stable door and into the night.

 

The stable’s remaining human occupants were left in shocked silence.  For their part, the horses didn’t seem to care a whit as they continued to munch on their oats.  Mary had her hand clamped over her mouth in shock, any remnants of lust long since vanished, and Henry fiddled with the knot of his tie as shame began to fill his belly.  _What on earth had they been thinking?_

The Duke began to pace the aisle between the horse stalls before suddenly kicking a metal pail across the stable, causing several of the horses to rear up upon their hind legs in fright.  “FUCK!!!!” 

Henry might have spent the rest of his life just pretending that none of it had ever happened—that he hadn’t just ejaculated all over his wife’s hand to the sight of two men committing buggery—but instead of turning to his left before walking out the door, the Duke turned to his right and looked directly into Henry’s eyes.

Henry had seen that look many times over during the war.  It was the look men had as they watched their buddies being ripped to shreds. It was the look men had as they waited for their turn to enter the meat grinder of No Man’s Land.  Henry was fairly certain that his face bore a similar look the day Charlie Rogers died.

His face drained of all color, the Duke stood before them, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.  “Oh, dear god.  Oh, dear god, no,” he managed to whisper before clamping his hand over his mouth in horror.

 

_We ought to tell him that it’s ok.  We ought to tell him that it’s really our fault for not telling them we were here.  We really ought to—_

 

The Duke dashed out of the stable and into the night.


	14. For Whom the Bell... Jingles

The jingling of one of the bells drew Bates’s eyes most unwillingly from the crossword puzzle he had been working on.  The Queen Caroline.  John signed in irritation before returning to his puzzle.  While his lordship had long since gone to bed, Anna was still waiting upon Lady Mary to do the same.

The bell jingled another three times with barely a pause.

“Andrew, would you go see what the Duke wants?” Barrow requested without so much as lifting his eyes from the book he was reading.

“Yes, Mr Barrow,” the young man said before promptly leaving the Servant’s Hall.

“Is our guest wearing out his welcome?” asked Bates, who couldn’t help noticing—although he declined to point it out—that Barrow had been reading the same page of his book for the past fifteen minutes.  In John’s opinion, Thomas had always been overly sensitive about any perceived slight, so he wasn’t particularly surprised—given the man’s behavior on his previous visit to the abbey—that the Duke might be rubbing the melancholy butler the wrong way.

Thomas smirked slightly before quickly schooling his features.  “Just a bit tired, Mr Bates.  It’s been a long day,” he said as the bell to the Queen Caroline began to ring again.

Andy reentered the room, scarcely five minutes after he had left, explaining to Barrow that “he wants to talk to you ‘bout something.”  And as if to punctuate this statement, the bell jingled another five times.

Bates snorted to himself, “Sending a mere footman when clearly only a butler will do.  Tsk, tsk, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas rolled his eyes as he stubbed out his cigarette.  “Guess I better see what _his grace_ wants,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  The bell continued jingling merrily away.

 

Making his way quickly up the back staircase and to the Queen Caroline—if for no other reason than to save his colleagues the headache of listening to that blasted bell—Thomas thumped firmly on the door, which opened before he had a chance to rap upon its surface a second time.  He gave a mild yelp of protest as Philip grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside before shutting the door swiftly behind him.

“Jesus Christ, Philip! If you honestly think that behaving this way is going to somehow make me—”

“Lady Mary and Talbot _know_ ,” Philip interrupted with a trembling voice, his eyes wide with barely controlled panic.

Thomas blinked at him in confusion as his mind tried to process what Philip was telling him.  “Well, yes.  I told you that I was outed,” he said slowly as a sickening realization washed over him.  “Oh my god.  Did they _warn_ you about me?  You know, I _thought_ that Lady Mary was different, but apparently I was wrong.  _Jesus_ , I can’t believe that she and Talbot would actually—“

“No, Thomas!  You don’t understand!  They _saw_ us!  In the stable.  They fucking _saw_ us!” Philip began to hyperventilate and claimed his hand over his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath.

His mind reeling with shock, Thomas sputtered, “What do you— what do you mean, they saw us?!  How could…. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Philip barked a laugh that was bereft of humor and verging upon hysteria, “Already beat you to it.”  His countenance dissolved into tears, and it was now that Thomas took note that the man’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot.

Whatever anger that Thomas had felt towards the Duke vanished in an instant.  “It’s going to— it’s going to be ok.  We’ll just tell them— you’ll tell them that it was me.  They already know about me, so I’m already done for.  But you— you just tell them that it was me.  That I forced you, and that—“

“Forced me?! How exactly is that supposed to work?! _There I was, innocently minding my own business, when this scoundrel threw himself arse-first at me_ ,” Philip mocked incredulously. “Well, you know how much I enjoy strolling around late at night sporting an erection.”

Thomas sighed.  “You’re one of their own.  Just give them an excuse to avoid a scandal, and they’ll take it.  It’s fine,” his voice cracked as emotion welled at the back of his throat, choking his words, “I’ll manage. I’ll figure something out.”

“I can’t let you take the blame for this!” Philip protested.  “Damn it, Thomas! You’re not falling on your sword to—“

“If this gets out, you’ll lose your family!” Thomas interrupted.  “Philip, don’t you understand?!  You’ll never see your kids again!  Just let me…. Let me take the blame.  Ok?  I’ll be fine….  Not like I have anyone.” 

His mouth hanging slightly open as the enormous weight of Thomas’s words crashed into him, Philip struggled to respond, struggled to come up with a plan.

 

A gentle tap sounded upon the door.  “Duke?” called Lady Mary.  “Are you in?”

As much as he wished he could deny her entry and stave off the inevitable, Philip knew that his time of reckoning was upon him and so he responded in a trembling voice for her to come in.

Lady Mary quietly entered the room and shut the door behind her.  She looked between the two men—one hugging his arms around himself as he stood sweating and trembling and the other standing with ramrod straight posture—and clasped her hands in front of her round belly as she began to explain nervously, “Good.  I’m glad that the both of you are here.  I want to—“

“Are the police on their way, m’lady?” Barrow interrupted.  He knew that it was a terribly impertinent thing for him to do; but at the present moment, propriety was the last thing on his mind.

The Duke’s eyes widened with horror.  The possibility of the police being called upon hadn’t even occurred to him, and his head whipped back-and-forth between Thomas and Lady Mary like a spectator at a tennis match.

“The police?!” Lady Mary echoed, looking quite shocked.  “Goodness no!  I wanted to—“

“Then I’m to be sacked,” Barrow interrupted once again as his eyes spilled over with tears of relief, “Thank you, m’lady.  That’s very kind of you.”  Being sacked was something he knew how to handle.  The last train for the day had already left Downton Station about two hours ago, but the morning train to London would be arriving at six o’clock the next morning.  So, he just needed to make sure to get there before the train arrived and—

“Barrow, you’re not being sacked.”

The conductor would probably be slowing down as he arrived in the station, so Thomas would need to find a spot a little ways further up the track and—

“Barrow, you’re _not_ being sacked,” Lady Mary repeated.

If he timed it just right, the train wouldn’t be able to slow down at all and—

Philip gave Thomas’s shoulder a slight shake—for the man had appeared to have gone nearly catatonic, so completely lost in his thoughts as he was—and Thomas jumped at the touch.  “I don’t… I don’t _understand_ ,” Thomas keened, his voice breaking with emotion.  “Of course, I’m sacked, m’lady.  You witnessed something that— something that was horrifying and utterly revolting and you are absolutely _disgusted_ by it— and, _of course_ , I’m sacked!”

Wincing at Barrow’s pain—for although she was not often an empathetic woman, Lady Mary couldn’t help but yearn for this man who was so much like herself to find happiness—she repeated more forcefully, “You’re not being sacked, Barrow.”  She shut her eyes and whispered, “I came here to apologize.”

“I don’t understand," was all Thomas could say in response.  Apologize?  Perhaps he had misheard her? If he wasn’t being sacked, then perhaps she just meant that the police weren’t there _yet_? And now she felt that she should apologize for…. “I don’t— The police? Will they be here soon?”  He felt Philip tugging on his arm, beckoning him to sit down at the edge of the bed, and he did so feeling utterly boneless in his state of shock and confusion.

“No one has called the police and no one will.  And you are _not_ being sacked,” Mary repeated slowly and forcefully.  “Henry and I— Well, we’re quite ashamed of ourselves.  We should have made our presence known immediately, but, well…. I’m afraid that we were just so… surprised that the two of you were… _intimate_ that… the opportunity to say something passed.”  She flushed and grimaced with embarrassment, “I am so, _so_ very sorry for the distress that you’ve been put through this evening.”

“And Mr Talbot…?” Philip prompted.

“He and I are of one mind on this matter,” Lady Mary confirmed.

Thomas was staring into space, his mind no longer capable of truly processing what was being said.  “But, what you witnessed…. Surely, you’re _disgusted_. Surely, you’re—“

“The only thing that I’m disgusted with is my own behavior.  We had _no right_ to violate your privacy.  Henry and I both hope that you can find it in your hearts to forgive us.”

Philip bobbed his head up-and-down like it was attached to his shoulders by a spring.  “Yes, of course! Of course!  Thank you, Lady Mary for your kindness.  I mean that truly.”

Mary nodded to him as she moved to the door, “Well, I suppose there might be some things you two need to discuss, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”

As she began to turn the door handle, the Duke called out to her, “Lady Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Please, don’t— please, don’t tell my wife,” he pleaded softly to her.

“No, no.  Of course not.  Goodnight, Duke.  Goodnight, Barrow.  I’m sure things will feel much brighter in the morning.” 

“Goodnight, m’lady,” Thomas mumbled as the door closed with a soft click.  

He wasn’t certain how much time passed before the lingering silence was finally broken.  It may have been just a few short minutes.  It may have been hours.  It may have been an eternity.

“Thomas,” Philip whispered, “Please talk to me.”

Thomas closed his eyes and whispered, “I wasn’t joking.”  Moving slowly, he began to remove the brass links from the cuffs of his shirt sleeves.  “When I told you that they hired me as butler,” he said as he rolled back the cuffs to reveal the scared flesh normally hidden from sight, “because I had cut my wrists.”


	15. The Path Not Taken

“When?” Philip asked as he stroked his thumb gently along the puckered scar tissue.  He didn’t ask _why_ , for hidden deep within him where he pushed down all of the hurt, all of the fear, all of the things that made him _different_ , he already knew _why_.  “When, Thomas?”

“Last summer.  There wasn’t a place for me here any longer and—“ His voice caught in his throat as emotion began to overwhelm him, “They think that it was all because of the job… and maybe some of it was but… I cu— I cut my wrists last summer, but I think I had made up my mind long before that. I—“ Again he found it difficult to speak.  “Have you— have you ever wished that you were _normal_?”

Blinking back tears, Philip could only barely manage to whisper, “Oh, Thomas….  You’re talking to a man who thinks that if he fucks his wife enough, he might actually come to enjoy it.  Spent our wedding night with my head in a chamber pot, I was so overwhelmed by the thought of performing my _marital_ duties.  Took until our third day of marriage and a bottle of merlot for me to actually work up the nerve to consummate the damn thing.”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Thomas mustered his courage, “A few years back, I saw an advert— I was just so _lost_ , you see? I was so in love with— And even though he couldn’t love me back, he still wanted to be my friend, and— But then he leaves and he’s telling me that he wants to me to be happy.  But how can I possibly be happy when…?” He has to stop to remind himself to continue breathing.  “A few years back, I saw an advert.  _Change Your Path_ , it said… And I— I thought that maybe I didn’t have to be this way and, um—“ His voice broke off once more as tears began to trickle down his cheeks.

No longer able to keep his own tears at bay, Philip nodded for him to continue.

“Well, um, Phyllis and Dr Clarkson, they know about most of it.  About the electroshock.  About the injections.  The whole thing turned out to be a scam. Spent nearly all of me savings on it. _Christ, I’m such a mook_. But they don’t know— They don’t know—“

“What don’t they know?” Philip prodded as he squeezed Thomas’s hand and was deeply disappointed when the hand was withdrawn.

“Every time they returned me to my room,” Thomas explained as he cradled his hand to his chest, “they would play this recording.”  He then closed his eyes and spoke verbatim the words that had been on a near constant repeat at the back of his thoughts for so long: “ _Sex between men is unnatural.  Nobody can love you like this.  Unnatural behavior will drive everyone away from you.  You degrade yourself by choosing to act against God’s laws. Sex between men is unnatural. Nobody can love you like this. Unnatural be—“_

“Thomas, _stop_!” Philip cried out with an anguished sob, his entire body shaking.  “Please, don’t say that!  Please don’t say such horrible things,” he pleaded for both of their sakes.

Nodding apologetically—wasn’t _this_ why he hadn’t told anyone what had happened?  Revealing this ugly stain upon his soul would only hurt those around him—Thomas whispered hoarsely,  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have—“

“No. No.  It’s ok.  I just— Just please don’t say those words again.  I beg of you.  I can’t stand to hear them. But— But go on.  What happened next?”

“So, um, then— Then they were needing to cut back on staff and, um… They needed to cut back on staff and everyone was thinking that I was going to _corrupt_ the new footman… and I’d go on an interview maybe once a month just to have some fat fuck look down at his nose at me and say _Oh, aren’t you just a wee bit delicate_ and I— and I have that _fucking_ recording just going over and over in my head and— and I just thought— I just thought— I just thought, _How long until somebody says that I shouldn’t be around the children? How long until they accuse me of trying to corrupt Master George?_ And a part of me _died_ then.  I just couldn’t stand to wait for it to come true.”  He found that he could no longer speak as emotion once more choked him.

“Oh, _Thomas_ ,” Philip could only just barely manage to utter, for his own precarious brush with disaster that vary same evening had left him shellshocked.  “Oh, Thomas…”

“Don’t you understand, Philip?  No one could possibly love someone like—“

His face turning red with emotion, Philip cut him off, “Someone like, _me_ , Thomas?  Because that’s what you are.  You’re like _me_.  Don’t you _dare_ tell me that we don’t deserve love.  Don’t you _dare_ —“

“You don’t love me, Philip.  You can’t love some who—“  His words were abruptly cut off by a kiss, and he felt like he was falling into an infinite abyss.

Breaking away from Thomas’s mouth only enough to whisper, “Don’t tell me who I can and cannot love,” Philip peppered the other man’s tear stained cheeks with kisses.

“You _can’t_ —“ But once more Thomas’s words were cut off and he found himself giving into this wonderful intrusion of his mouth as Philip’s tongue flicked along the inner edges of his lips. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t deserve love,” Philip whispered against Thomas’s skin as he began to push the other man’s coat jacket from his shoulders. “Don’t tell me _we_ don’t deserve love,” he whispered as he began unbuttoning Thomas’s shirt.

“Philip, we _can’t_ , what if—“ But the worst had already happened and they were both still breathing, weren’t they?  And so until at the wee hours of dawn when he quietly snuck back to his bedroom in the attic, Thomas lay nestled in the cradle of Philip’s arms.

Even though it wasn’t true, even though it _couldn’t_ be true, he would allow Philip to love him until that love was inevitably taken away.


	16. Things Whispered; Things Overheard

Miss Baxter furrowed her brow as her eyes darted worriedly between Thomas, who hadn’t said a solitary word since coming down for breakfast, and Anna, whose own brow seemed to confirm that there was indeed something to worry about.  At last, Anna broke the silence, asking, “Is something the matter, Mr Barrow?”

“Why would anything be the matter?” the butler replied dully and absentmindedly, earning himself a gasp from both women.  Given that the last time he had said such a thing, the two of them had wound up spending three hours scrubbing blood stains from a bathtub, it really shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise.  Immediately realizing his error, Thomas quickly amended, “I was just thinking about… flowers.”

“Oh?” Miss Baxter prompted, relaxing only slightly.  She was beginning to think that the wrinkles in her forehead were now a permanent feature.

“Yes.  Now, I realize that Molesley’s father grows roses, but I’d say that carnations would lend a bit more of a festive feel to things and—“

“What’s this?” Bates interrupted with a look of mild confusion.  It was clear that Barrow was teasing Miss Baxter about _something_ , but it wasn’t entirely clear what that might be. “Are we planning for a special occasion?”

“Mr Molesley and Miss Baxter’s wedding,” Thomas informed him offhandedly, “Hmm, now that I think of it, let’s make it _orange_ carnations and—“

Anna clapped her hands with excitement, “What?! Mr Molesley finally asked you?! Oh, I’m so happy for—“

“Mr Barrow, how many times to I have to tell you? Mr Molesley is a good friend and— Wait, why orange carnations?”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “Because _I_ like orange carnations.  Really, Miss Baxter, not everything is about _you._ ”  No need for anyone to worry about Thomas the mischief maker, now was there?  He mentally kicked himself for allowing his foolishness from the previous evening to carry into breakfast.  Hadn’t Phyllis already suffered enough sleepless nights over his sorry sake?

Shaking her head as she laughed, Miss Baxter noted pointedly, “Last I checked, weddings—which, might I add, I’m _not_ having—are generally all about the bride.”

“Fine,” Barrow grumbled with a pout, “You can have some pink tulips too…. Ooh! And some of those little white flowers!  What are they called again…?”

“Baby’s breath,” Bates supplied, finding that he couldn’t help but smile as Miss Baxter rolled her eyes heavenwards in defeat.

“Besides,” Barrow noted as he rose from the table and began to make his way to his pantry, “orange and pink will compliment the blue in your dress.”

A startled Miss Baxter exclaimed, “ _What dress_?!” just as the door to the Butler’s Pantry shut.

 

Of course, had Thomas left the door open just a few moments longer, he may have overheard Miss Baxter—a woman who, along with Thomas’s older sister, had once convinced a six-year-old Thomas that one could grow an ice-cream tree by planting a Penny Lick in the backyard and that he _really did_ have the oldest goldfish in all of Manchester (“They change color and size overnight, didn’t you know that?”)—whisper to the others, “Can you keep a secret?”

 

With a laugh—for who would have guessed that Miss Baxter would be good for a little lighthearted scheming?—Andy excused himself from the table and ventured into the kitchen to most definitely _not_ flirt with Daisy.  No, no.  That wasn’t what he was intending to do at all.  Not one little bit.

“Hi, Daisy,” he said as he leaned against the work table at the center of the kitchen and was greeted with a scowl.  He had once asked Mr Barrow what sort of men Daisy found attractive and after a slight pause, the butler smirked and replied, “Tragically unavailable.”  It certainly made flirtation difficult when the object of one’s affection wished for one to play hard to get!

A tray slammed down upon the table, jarring Andy out of his daydream.  “All right, Andy, there’s Mr Bradford’s breakfast tray ready to go,” Mrs Patmore said with a nod towards the countertop, “Now, away with you before the man succumbs to starvation!”

Hiding a small smirk at the cook’s oftentimes melodramatic demeanor—something that had only taken him a half-dozen or so smacks upside the head to learn to do—Andy obediently took up the tray after a shy smile and “Bye, Daisy” to the assistant cook and headed up the back staircase.

When he reached the Men’s Corridor in the attic, he slowed to a stop and felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach for the muffled sound of a man sobbing had reached his ears.  Had something happened to Mr Barr— but, _no_ , he had just seen Mr Barrow downstairs in the Servant’s Hall.  While it was true that Mr Barrow had seemed somewhat somber at the start of breakfast, he had perked up quite a bit once he had a chance to tease Miss Baxter about her relationship with Mr Molesely.  So who…?

As he rounded the corner, he peered into Mr Carson’s old bedroom, where Mr Bradford was having his convalescence, and was quite startled to see the Duke curled up on his side, his head resting in the old man’s lap, and his breath coming out in jagged sobs.  He looked like a little boy seeking comfort from his grandfather.  “I nearly ruined everything,” he whispered hoarsely as Bradford gently combed his fingers through the Duke’s hair as he made soft _shushing_ noises and murmured nonsensical words of comfort.

Realizing that he was spying upon a private moment that was none of his business, Andy took several steps backwards before calling out in as cheerful a voice he could muster, “Mr Bradford? Are you awake, sir? I have your breakfast!”  He waited a beat before entering the room, and in that time, the Duke had made his way to the window where he appeared to be transfixed by the the simple hook-and-eye latch.

“Thank you,” the Duke said softly, without turning around, as Andy settled the tray in front of Mr Bradford.  Although he did not elaborate, it was clear from the way the back of his neck reddened that he was well aware that the young footman had witnessed at least part of his breakdown.  

If there was one thing in the world that Philip had learned to value in a good servant, it was discretion.


	17. The Most Important Meal of the Day

“…and once we get the engine refurbished—assuming the timing belt isn’t completely shot—we should be able to turn a decent profit,” Tom explained between bites of buttered toast.

Barely registering what the other man was saying, Henry nodded.  “Timing belt.  Mmm hmm,” he muttered as he added a sugar cube to his tea.  He may have already added one—or five, as was the case—but he couldn’t quite remember.  “Yes, we should definitely get some timing belts.”

Raising an eyebrow at his brother-in-law’s presently distracted state, Tom continued amiably, “Oh, and I was thinking that we could stick a couple of Mary's pigs under the bonnet.  _Pig Power Beats Horse Power.”_

Taking a sip of his sugar water, Henry murmured, “Pigs.  Sounds great.  Yup— _Ugh!_ ”

Mary sighed as she rolled her eyes at her husband’s inability to _just act natural, for the love of God, just act natural!_ “Barrow,” she said to the butler, who was standing by the breakfast buffet and turning various shades of green, “Please bring Mr Talbot a fresh cup of tea.  He seems to be a bit distracted this morning.”

Turning chartreuse, Barrow did as instructed and placed a fresh cup in front of Talbot, who suddenly appeared to be utterly _fascinated_ with the pepper mill and the… and the… and the butter knife! Yes! The butter knife.  Very interesting… that… butter knife.

“What’s the matter with you?” Tom whispered incredulously.  “You’ve had your head in the clouds all morning!”

Adding a sugar cube to his tea—and then blinking in shocked surprise when Mary suddenly grabbed the bowl and moved it to the other side of the table—Henry flushed.  “I, uh, um—“

“Good morning,” interrupted a deceptively cheery voice.  Henry snapped his head around completely nonplussed to see the Duke entering the room and _not_ looking like someone who had been recently caught buggering the help.  “I was just checking in on Bradford.  I dare say we’ll be out of your hair before long.  I’m sure that,” he paused slightly, “you’re looking forward to getting back to normal.”

Desperately wishing he had some sugar to add to his tea, Henry began to mutter, “Oh, yes, well, um—“

“Think nothing of it, Duke,” Mary interrupted, “You are quite welcome to stay for as long as needed!  I’m sure your butler is quite dear to you.”

By the breakfast buffet, Barrow turned from moss to sage.

The Duke gave her a small smile. “Yes, quite dear—thank you, Barrow.”  Taking a sip from his coffee cup already prepared with two sugars, a drop of cream, and a pinch of cinnamon. ( _Blimey_ , thought Tom, _Did Thomas take up mind reading?!_ ), he repeated almost to himself, “Quite dear indeed.”

Stretching his arms above his head as he stood up, Tom declared, “Well, I’m off.  I’ll be at the Agent’s Cottage if anybody needs me.  And Henry, get some sleep, would you?  If you think that baby is keeping you awake _now_ , just wait until he’s been born!”  Chuckling to himself, Tom left the room with an awkward silence in his wake.

 

The clicking of the clock upon the mantle was extraordinarily loud to Henry’s ears.  He swallowed against a lump in his throat.  _Well, would you just look at that butter knife.  They don’t make butter knives like these any more. Nope.  Not like this beauty.  When people see a butter knife like this, they say, “Now, that’s a butter knife!” Oh, for God sakes! Somebody say something!_

“Well,” the Duke began. 

 _Not you!_ Henry silently screamed to himself, _Somebody who I am_ not _currently picturing with his cock shoved up my butler’s arse!_  

“I realize that this may feel a bit uncomfortable…” 

 _A bit uncomfortable?  A_ bit _uncomfortable?  Oh, and thank you, brain-of-mine! I really needed that image of the man sticking his tongue up Barrow’s nether region.  BLOODY HELL!_

“…but I do want you to know how grateful I am that, um, that—“

“Good morning!” Lord Grantham said obliviously as he obliviously entered the room, helped himself obliviously to a cup of coffee, sat down obliviously in his chair, and opened his newspaper obliviously.  In short, the man was completely without a clue.

Henry swore that he could have kissed him right then and there. _SHUT UP BRAIN!! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!_ He grimaced as he felt his cheeks begin to burn.

“Oh, dear,” Robert exclaimed, “You’re not coming down with something, are you Henry? You’re looking rather flushed.”

Of all the times for Robert to actually be _capable_ of observing the world around him…. Blushing even more intensely, Henry feigned a weak cough.  “Ahem, um, yes.  I think I might be coming down with something. Yes, um…” He coughed again for affect and then winced when Mary kicked him in the ankle.

Shaking his head sympathetically, Robert turned to Barrow, instructing, “Would you go fetch a Beechams from Mrs Hughes?  Thank you, Barrow—oh, and fetch one for yourself as well! I dare say you’re looking rather under the weather.  You’re not _both_ coming down with bronchitis?”

“Oh no, m’lord,” replied Barrow, “I’m afraid that my breakfast just isn’t agreeing with me.  Too much coffee.”

Nodding with understanding, Robert noted, “That’s why I drink chamomile at breakfast.  Much gentler on the stomach.”  He chuckled slightly, “Believe me, I would know!”

“Yes, m’lord.  Excellent advice, m’lord.” _Please stop reminding us of the time your stomach exploded all over the dining table, m’lord._

 

* * *

 

“…and, no one had any idea that he was feeling that way?”

“I _should_ have noticed that something was amiss when he stopped spending time with the children, but… oh, I don’t know.  I suppose I was too caught up with other things…. Did he talk to you? About… why?”

Thomas held his breath as he stood just outside of view on the other side of the doorframe.  Peaking inside, he could see that Lord Grantham had already left, leaving Lady Mary, Mr Talbot, and Philip behind.

“Yes….”

“Well, do tell us what we might do to help cheer him?”

There was an audible sigh, and Thomas knew that Philip was struggling to find the words to explain what it was like for men like them.

“When you’re like… Thomas…”

 _Bastard_.

“When you’re like _me_ ,” he supplied in a low, gravely voice as he entered the room, “You must find contentment with what you have and put aside desire for what you can’t have.  I’m afraid that _his grace_ has difficulty relating.”

Philip groaned, “Oh, for the love of— Stop working yourself into a snit, Thomas.”

Handing the glass of water and Beechams powder to Talbot, who immediately gulped the solution down, Thomas didn’t bother turning his head as he replied haughtily, “I’m not in a snit, your grace.  And it’s _Barrow_.  I think it best that we all regain some sense of formality, don’t you?”  In any other circumstance, he would have been behaving in a revoltingly impertinent manner.  But what did he care for pertinence if the bastard was going to act like he was somehow _better_ , like he wasn’t the same as Thomas?

Philip scoffed as he slouched momentarily in his seat before straightening up again, “I must say, you’re quite talented at making an already uncomfortable situation even more delightful.”  He then turned to Lady Mary and repeated in an overly enunciated fashion, “When you’re like Thomas _and me…_ the… the rules and mores of society can make it… difficult to have the sort of things in life that others tend to take for granted.”  He shifted a bit in his chair, and his cheeks colored just a bit as he continued, “But as Thomas has indicated, my position in this world offers me a great deal of protection that his, sadly, does not.”

Feeling somewhat mollified, Thomas mumbled, “You shouldn’t call me by my Christian name.  Somebody might hear.”

“Well, I should think I’d have far more important things to worry about if somebody were to be listening in on this conversation….”

The room’s four occupants turned in unison towards the door and Henry couldn’t help thinking that they all seemed to act as though they were expecting one of the maids to burst in with an accusatory finger, shrieking as though possessed by Shakespeare’s far less talented cousin, “What doth mine ears detect? Such loathsome talk of buggering thy neighbors loins!”  He bit his bottom lip to stifle the giggling fit that threatened to erupt.

Looking quite thoughtful, Lady Mary began, “Perhaps, it would be best that we bring this discussion to a close…” 

 _Oh, bless you! Bless you, my beautiful wife!_  

“…and continue it elsewhere?”

_What?! No! We were so close to me never having to think about this ever again!!_

“Oh! What about a picnic around tea time?  It shouldn’t be too much trouble for Barrow— well, I suppose you’d be expected to come regardless, wouldn’t you?— Yes, so we’ll say that Henry and I wish to show you a bit of the countryside while the weather is nice, and _of course_ , Barrow needs to come along to make sure everything is up to snuff.”

The Duke smiled broadly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.  “Lady Mary, you truly are an extraordinary woman!  I can’t even begin to thank you for your kindness and generosity.  Yes, that does indeed sound like an excellent idea!”

Both Henry and Thomas nodded stiffly, their faces bearing identical looks of horror.  And both men whispered the same silent prayer to whatever deities might be listening, “Please let the earth swallow me before tea time arrives!” 

 


	18. A Little Appetizer Before the Main Course

Philip winced slightly as the garment brush smoothing the grain of his tweed sport coat in short, even strokes was applied with such force that he began to fear that the top layer of his skin was being removed in the process.  Priding himself as a man well-trained in both inductive and deductive reasoning—because, _really_ , that Philosophy degree from Cambridge had to be good for _something_ —Philip proclaimed, “You’re angry, aren’t you?”  In response, he was greeted with a particularly vicious swipe of the garment brush.  “You’re angry.  I can— _ouch!_ —I can— _Jesus Christ!_ — I can tell.”

“I’m not angry,” Thomas gritted out between clenched teeth.  “I’m just trying to suss out when it was that you became so unbelievably _stupid_.”

Bristling at the other man’s harsh words, Philip sputtered, “I beg your pardon! I—“

“I swear to god, if you even _think_ of calling me impertinent, I will deck you.”  But before Philip had opportunity to respond—and whether it be to object or to apologize, Thomas would never know—he continued, “Why on god’s green earth would you wish to extend this _nightmare_ any further?  _You_ might have the luxury of going home to _Moira and the kiddies_ , but I still have to face them until they decide that perhaps they’re _not_ quite as comfortable with this business as they’d like to think.”

“Thomas, you’re worrying for no good reason.  Lady Mary _adores_ you, and it’s quite plainly obvious to anyone with eyes that she looks to you as something of a father-figure for her little boy.”  He chuckled slightly to himself before continuing, “I dare say, if your nature were different, we’d probably be calling you Mr Thomas Craw—“

“And you don’t think that _might_ be a role that Mr Talbot would prefer to have for himself?!  For the love of— _Philip_! Did you see how uncomfortable he was at breakfast this morning?  And now you want to add to an already horrifying situation by suggesting—“ Thomas could feel a vein in the side of his head beginning to pulsate.  _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, night, ten._ “Master George already has someone to be his father.  Lady Mary might… appreciate me keeping the lad entertained but that doesn’t mean— _Damn it_! Why are we even talking about this rubbish?!… Look, Lady Mary may have enough… _pity_ ” (Oh how he loathed being pitied) “for me that she’s willing to look the other way, but _Talbot_ ….”

“Well, that’s exactly why we need to have this picnic!  Show the man that we’re just two, perfectly average blokes who—“

Snorting derisively, Thomas grumbled, “You’re a fucking _Duke_.”

“I put my trousers on one leg at a time just like any other man!” Philip objected as Thomas checked that Philip’s burgundy and plum silk tie ended at the proper length before moving on to fastening the other man’s cufflinks.

“You have somebody _help_ you put your trousers on,” Thomas snickered.

Philip flashed a mischievous grin, “Well, maybe it’s just that I so love to see you from that angle.”  He leaned in to kiss Thomas but was met with just air as the dark haired man stepped backwards.  Disappointed, he asked, “What? What’s wrong?”

Fidgeting with his own cufflinks, Thomas hesitated for so long before responding that Philip began to wonder if he was going to say anything at all.  “You realize that, even if I’m not going to be _sacked_ , they now think that you’re getting ready to whisk me away on some grand adventure, and we both know that’s not the case.”

Philip remained silent, for what Thomas had just said was indeed the truth.

“That was the great irony—when I had my head on the chopping block—I’m fairly certain that half the reason his lordship set his sights on me as being the most _redundant_ was that everyone assumed that I’d be _happier_ elsewhere,” he shook his head slightly.  “It didn’t seem to matter to anyone that Molesley was leaving to be a teacher and Andy to be a farmer— it didn’t seem to matter that the staff had _already_ been reduced without any fuss.  Once they all had it in their heads that things would be better off without me….” _Once I had it in_ my _head that things would be better off without me._

Finally gleaning to Thomas’s meaning, Philip filled in the rest, “You’re worried that you’ll be pushed out again.”

“And where exactly would I go?  As you said, your wife wouldn’t be none to pleased with you bringing home a souvenir.”

“Thomas… I’m sorry.  Truly.  If things could be different….”

“It’s fine.  You don’t want me.  I already knew that from the beginning.”

Swiping his hand over his face, Philip sighed heavily, “I want you more than anything, but….”

A mirthless laugh burst briefly from Thomas’s lips.  “But,” he muttered.

“…but what you said last night about me losing my family….  Losing my children?  I’m sorry, Thomas, I wish I was brave enough to hold on to you no matter what the consequences.  I know that it makes me a coward to continue with the farce that is my life— but the thought of that fairy tale ending…. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified—“

Squeezing his eyes shut, Thomas cut in, “No, no.  Stop….  I— I’m sorry.  You’re just as affected by all of this mess as I am.  It was selfish of me to not consider what you’re going through.”

Philip smiled at him.  It was a sad smile, but one that was reflected in his eyes as well, “I want you to be happy, Thomas.  Even if it isn’t with me.  That’s why I want us to have this picnic….”

“What are you getting at…?” Thomas asked, growing increasingly suspicious.  

Philip shook his head, “Just trust me, please?  I want you to be happy.  Lady Mary wants you to be happy.  And I think there just might be a way that we can make it so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is a bit limited at the moment, so I've decided to most brief scenes for the meantime rather than taking forever to get chapters churned out.
> 
> My favorite part about writing is getting to have some back-and-forth discussion in the comments, so please post speculations/wish lists/suggestions!


	19. Are we there yet?

Keeping his eyes fixed upon the road, Thomas fought between dueling urges: did he wish to overhear the whispered conversation between Philip and Lady Mary or did he wish to remain in ignorance?  The former won out over the latter, and he strained his ears to take in the tiniest droplet but was disappointed to hear only that Lady Mary intended to host a cross-country horse race once certain “obstacles” were no longer an issue.  Resisting the urge to audibly groan, he ventured a glance to his right where Talbot gripped the steering wheel with such intensity that Thomas wondered if it would break off in the man’s hands.

Leaving the Abbey had been, for lack of a better word, _interesting_. Although Lady Mary had been quite right that no one would question the need for Barrow’s presence, he did find himself to be the object of mild derision when Lady Grantham lamented that the impromptu picnic would mean that Stephens would not be available to chauffeur her to a meeting with the hospital board.

“I’m fairly certain we can manage,” Lady Mary began only for the Duke to interject that he was confident Barrow could handle a little drive through the countryside, even if the task was beneath a butler—an assertion that was immediately met with peels of laughter from Lord Grantham.

“You want— you want _Barrow_ to drive?” Robert gasped out between giggles.  “Were you planning to arrive some time this _month_?”

Making a tiny “humph” of indignation, Barrow mumbled to the teapot, “I _know_ how to drive, m’lord.”  And when his lordship offered him a pitying look that clearly said, _Yes, of course, you can. You just keep telling yourself that!  And maybe one day, pigs will fly,_ Thomas squared his shoulders and objected (pouted, really) that he had driven them around the entire time they were in America.

“Barrow, my _mother_ drives faster than you.”

Addressing the teapot once again, Thomas most certainly _did not_ stick his lower lip out (much) as he muttered, “I just like to be a bit cautious is all, m’lord.”

“I think we will be perfectly fine with _Henry_ driving, Pappa,” Lady Mary interjected before Barrow’s growing indignation reached to the point that he decided to just send _Andy_ in his place.

* * *

 

And so, Thomas now found himself sitting in the front passenger seat next to a man who quite clearly shared Barrow’s own sentiment that he would rather be just about _anywhere_ else at that given moment.  Somehow, the ten minute journey felt exceedingly and excruciatingly longer.  Yet, an eternity did eventually pass as Talbot brought the car to a halt in a clearing just outside a small woods.  “The lake is just a short walk through the woods,” Lady Mary explained as she struggled to extract herself from the backseat, “I told Mumma and Pappa that we wouldn’t venture far from the auto, so you must all promise not to give me away!”

Thomas went to the back of the car to fetch the picnic paraphernalia and was surprised to see that Talbot was already unfastening the basket.  “Oh, I’ll get that, sir!” Thomas called out as he dashed forward to help.  He had silently groaned when Lady Cora had insisted that they bring along the folding table and chairs; although the set came with a leather carrying strap fashioned by an intrepid junior footman by the name of Charlie Carson some umpty years ago, it was still going to be murder on Thomas’s back carrying both them and the picnic bas—

“Sir! Let me get that!” Thomas objected as he watched Talbot heft up the oversized picnic basket packed by Mrs Patmore with enough food to keep them all fed until the following winter.  His attempts to retrieve the basket were thwarted, however, as Talbot tightened his grip.

“Barrow…” Henry began, speaking directly to Thomas for the first time that day. “It’s a quarter mile trek through the woods and you are _not_ a pack mule, contrary to what Mary may think,” he noted as they watched Lady Mary and the Duke disappear into the woods without so much as a backwards glance.

“I do apologize, sir,” Barrow noted sincerely; and although the immediate cause for his regret may have been—at least on the surface—the overabundance of items to carry, both men knew that the apology was for something far more significant.

Henry considered just nodding his head and ignoring the awkwardness of the situation just a bit longer—if _forever_ could be considered “just a bit”—but his conscience wouldn’t allow it.  “If anyone should be apologizing….” He took a breath before continuing as he mustered up his courage, “Look, we’re all feeling rather embarrassed about… well… you know.”

Indeed, Thomas _did_ know.

“But I’m sure that with enough time, we’ll all look back on this and laugh.”  And when Thomas gave him a dubious look that skirted just at the edge of impertinence, Henry quickly amended, “Alright, maybe not _laugh_.  But at the very least not feel like a couple of bell-ends.”

The crudeness of Talbot’s language elicited an involuntary smirk from Thomas as he momentarily dropped his servant’s blank; however, “I suppose we should catch up with the others, sir,” was all he said.

Talbot nodded, “Yes, the two of them are probably trying to work out a custody agreement for you…. I’ll have you know that Mary won’t be giving you up easily!”

“He’s not going to want me to leave with him,” Barrow mumbled as he adjusted the weight of the table and chairs on his back and began to walk towards the woods.  “It’s just a dalliance.”

Remembering the intensity of Barrow’s anger when the Duke had said that he loved him, Henry elected to remain silent.  He was quite certain that it was far from a simple affair for either man, but it was not his place to say.  Instead, he reiterated what Mary had drilled into him earlier that day after reading him the riot act after breakfast, “Well, we just want you to be happy.”

Thomas cringed at the word: “happy.” After all, wasn’t it his quest to find happiness that had ultimately brought him so low in the first place?  “Thank you, sir…. But I’m not sure it’s possible for someone like me to be truly happy.  I’m afraid that it’s just something that I need to learn to accept.”

* * *

 

“You and Barrow…” Mary paused a moment as she mulled over how to pose the question.  “Have you been… acquainted all this time?”  Could it really be possible that the two of them had been carrying on a romantic entanglement for over a decade?  Admittedly, she had been rather put out when the realization had struck her that Barrow had been _with_ a man she very nearly married, but then the memory of their devastated faces from the prior evening flashed through her mind and she returned to her senses.  

  “Acquainted?  Well, I suppose that’s _one_ way of putting it…. Um, no.  We… lost touch…,” Philip addressed the foliage overhead as his face flushed.

“I remember your last visit. You wanted to see the attic…?” Mary prompted for him to fill in the blanks.

“That’s why he doesn’t trust me,” Philip explained, “I went there to end things with him… and that meant retrieving letters that I had sent.”

“Retrieve?” The incredulity in Mary’s voice was clear.

“…Destroy,” he admitted after much hesitation. “Tossed them in the fire right in front of him…. I told myself that it was simply to protect myself from being blackmailed—“

“Knowing Barrow, he most probably gave you plenty of reason to worry,” Mary noted dryly.  “Was it really all that one-sided?  Did you truly not care for him?” _Do you still not care?_  

Philip stopped so suddenly that it was almost as if he had hit an invisible wall.  He wanted to object, to act as though he was thoroughly insulted by the question.  But the simple fact was that he had approached the young footman on a summer evening in 1911 knowing full well that any time they spent together would be _temporary_.  When he had told Thomas that it was all a simple dalliance, he had intended to play the role of the cad, making it easier for them to sever ties. And yet... “Thomas wanted the fairytale.” 

“That feels oddly familiar,” Mary mused to herself as she remembered _hours_ spent with Anna trying to find the perfect ensemble to snag herself a _duke_ for a husband.

“Thomas wanted the fairytale, and I wanted…. Well, I told myself that I wanted one last fling before it was time to settle down,” he chuckled quietly to himself, “Perhaps I’m the one believing in fairytales?  I was convinced that once I was properly married, my— that I wouldn’t— I….”  His voice petered out as he found himself unable to find words to express his turmoil. “I cared about Thomas, but I think I cared about myself a bit more,” he finally admitted.

“And what about now?” Mary entreated.  “Did you… Did you come to Downton because you hoped to have that fairytale life with him?”

Philip had to admit that, given the circumstances of his first visit, it was a fair question.  “Um, no.  I mean, I guess that I might have _hoped_ , somewhere at the back of my mind, that he’d still be working for your family, but I wouldn’t say that I came with the sole intention to— that is to say, um….”  He was blushing now as he confronted his own denial.  “I didn’t come intending to _woo_ Thomas.  But I don’t think I came with the intention to _not_ woo him either.”

The shadows of the forest finally gave way to a sunny clearing and a modest sized lake—a pond really.  And Philip took the opportunity to close his eyes and watch the dappled streaks of sunlight play across his eyelids.  When he opened his eyes, he addressed the lake rather than Lady Mary, “As for the fairytale… I’m afraid that such things are out of my reach.  Ironic for a duke, I suppose…. I just want— I just want for him to be happy even if it’s not—“

The sound of footsteps coming from a few dozen yards away cut off his words, but Mary understood his intended meaning.  He wanted Thomas to be happy even if it wasn’t with him.  She turned to smile and wave to Henry and Barrow (only wrinkling her nose slightly at the sweat stains appearing on their clothing) before whispering to the Duke, “I believe that you and I are of a shared mind that Barrow needs _someone_ in his life.  Someone whose station in life is similar to his own.…”

“…Yes,” he whispered back.

“I think I have an idea,” she told him with a conspiratorial wink.  “…Wouldn’t you agree that Henry is in _desperate_ need of a valet?”


	20. Musical Chairs and other games we play

Under normal circumstances, having only three chairs would be perfectly adequate. Under normal circumstances, Barrow would stand unobtrusively and unnoticed while Lady Mary and Mr Talbot gabbled amiably with their esteemed guest. Under normal circumstances, Barrow would silently pour the wine before coming around to serve one of Mrs Patmore’s finest three course meals (of course, all of her meals were her finest). Under normal circumstances, Barrow would wait for the trio to have their mouths stuffed with delicacies before surreptitiously scarfing down the roast beef on rye that had been set aside for him.

Instead, Lady Mary was flourishing her hand towards one of the chairs and saying, “Please, have a seat, Barrow.”

At first, he demurred: “Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly, m’lady!”

But Lady Mary persisted, insisting that Barrow was “as much a guest for this picnic as anyone else.”

So, next he stalled: “Mmm. I’ll just get the luncheon set up, m’lady.”

But instead of the others immediately taking their seats like they were _supposed to_ , Lady Mary volunteered. Or rather, volun _told_. “Darling, why don’t you lend Barrow a hand?” she commanded her husband as she and the Duke made themselves comfortable.

Which of course left one chair unclaimed.

As he reached into the basket to retrieve bowls for the soup, Henry rolled his eyes ever so slightly. It was the slightest flick of his eyes that would have gone completely unremarked upon by anyone not obsessed with hyperanalyz--

A sharp puff of barely suppressed laughter escape from Thomas's nostrils as he caught sight of "Mr Mary Crawley"--because, really, everyone knew who was wearing the trousers in _that_ relationship--daring to roll his eyes at one of his wife's commands. Quickly schooling his features, Thomas accepted the bowls from the other man, softly murmuring, "Thank you, sir. I can handle things from here. If you would care to take your seat, sir?"

Just as softly, Talbot murmured back, "How long do you suppose before they realized that we're short? Looking forward to a round of musical chairs, Barrow?"

Thomas responded only with the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth as he turned to the small, square table and began to arrange the place settings. Mrs Patmore had prepared a delectable three course menu befitting the aristocracy-- _puree de pommes Parmentier_ with _crouton de huitre_ , rolled mutton joint with capers and anchovies, and last but not least a Champagne and primrose jelly--and Andy had dutifully filled the basket with porcelain and silver for the three diners. Naturally, Mr Barrow would be perfectly content eating his sandwich with his hands. Satisfied that the dessert spoons were equidistance from the entré forks (which were, of course, arranged at a 45 degree angle from the soup tureen) and that the soup spoons were _exactly_ three-quarters of an inch from the edge of each the plate, Thomas announced that he was off to gather wild flowers for the crystal vase adorning the center of the table.

As soon as he was a few yards away, Lady Mary looked askance at the table arrangements and was quite certain she knew what Barrow was trying to do. "We seem to be-- would it be any trouble for you to check the hamper to see if perhaps Barrow _forgot_ to take out a place setting for himself?" she asked the Duke.

Having barely been able to stomach his breakfast, Philip was feeling positively famished, and so he eagerly riffled through the wicker basket. While he did not uncover the requested plates and bowls, he _did_ manage to find a small paper-wrapped package that smelled absolutely delectable. Peeling back the waxed paper, Philip grinned with delight. Did his eyes and nose decieve him, or was that a roast beef on rye with mustard _and_ horse radish? Despite his station in life, Philip had always preferred eating simple fair--and somewhat ironically, _despite his station in life_ , Philip found that he seldom had the opportunity to do so. He knew that the sandwich was not intended for himself, but his growling stomach was making a very convincing argument that the mutton would be a fine change of pace for Thomas.

The moment his teeth sunk into the bread to tear off a bite, Philip heard a disgruntled huff from behind him. "What are you doing?" Thomas asked as he crossed his arms and began to tap his foot impatiently waiting for an answer.

In all fairness, the only response Thomas would have accepted at this point would have been some variation on, "I am being a selfish prick who likes to just abscond with things that do not belong to him and shovel them into his big fat gob even though other people may have been looking forward to enjoying a sandwich after dragging a pile of garden furniture through the fucking woods." Even something as simple as "I am a slug" would do. So when Philip answered instead, "Oh? Did you want some?" Thomas was a little less than pleased.

"Well, golly gosh, Philip, let me think. Did I really want to eat _my_ lunch? Gee willikers, why would I ever want to do something like that?" Thomas replied sardonically, and Henry found himself struck by the strangeness of hearing Barrow be anything but effusively polite--not to mention how queer it was to think of the man as being on a first name basis with a _duke_.

_Although, given where Crowborough was sticking his tongue last night...._

Henry could feel a burst of laughter bubbling at the back of his throat. _Just like that cock at the back of Barrow's, eh?_ Now was not the time, Henry admonished himself as he bit his bottom lip. Earlier that morning, he had reasoned with himself quite logically that there was nothing deviant or perverse about finding the previous evening's display to be... _provocative_. It was perfectly natural reaction to raw human sexuality that had very little to do with the gender of the participants. If anything, he was merely responding to _Mary's_ reaction. That he was vigorously taking himself in hand as he came to this conclusion was neither here nor there.

And so, in his quest to ignore the rather vivid image playing on a seemingly neverending repeat across his mind's eye of Barrow being enthusiastically buggered, Henry interjected much more abruptly than he knew to be wise, "Well, I suppose that you'll need to be mindful of Barrow's sandwiches if you'll be whisking him away."

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It was no secret Upstairs that Barrow was exceedingly sensitive about the state of his employment. He would often take on tasks better suited for a footman or even a hall boy, and on more than one occasion had skipped his scheduled half day several months in a row. Any hint of _wouldn't you be happier elsewhere?_ was apt to put the man into an anxiety riddled funk for days.

Before Thomas had a chance to respond, to say that he was quite happy with his current position and he had no intention of leaving and please don't throw him out on his ear and have you even considered what a loyal employee he is compared to certain people named _Gwen_ and _bloody fucking hell_ is he really going to have to start hunting for a new job and-- Philip answered with a slight laugh that, "As much as I wish it were otherwise, I'm afraid that our rendezvous is only for the duration of my visit."

Forgetting his anxiety over his continued employment--in fact, forgetting himself completely--Thomas nearly snarled at Philip, "You completely and utter _pillock_. I can't believe you!" Blinking back tears, he turned to Lady Mary and Talbot, "I apologise m'lady, sir. If you will excuse me, I need to get some air." No one made mention of the fact that he was already outside as he proceeded to walk up the edge of the lake as briskly as his dignity would allow.

Realizing that he had made a grievous error in judgement, Philip politely excused himself before jogging after Thomas.

 

"Well," Mary proclaimed ruefully as she watched the aristocrat give chase, "I suppose things could have gone worse."


	21. Into the Woods

Thomas leaned against the white bark of a birch tree gasping for breath, cursing himself for being so easily winded as he fished through his pockets for his cigarette case and lighter.  The lighter was low on fuel and it took several strikes of the sparkwheel before a meager flame flickered to life.  With slightly trembling hands, he touched the flame to the fag’s end—only two remaining in the case; he made a mental note to buy more—and tried to ignore the crunch of leaves from behind him.  Tried to ignore the hand that reached out to grasp his shoulder.

Shrugging his shoulder with a violent jerk, Thomas grumbled, “Leave me alone, Philip.”

“Thomas, please, I just want to—“

“ _You ate my sandwich, you fucking prick_!” Thomas screeched, his throat constricting against the force of his emotions. 

Nonplussed, Philip blinked as he silently mouthed the word _sandwich_. “You’re… you’re angry about… Look, I’m sorry about— But, you can have a sandwich _any_ old time, Thomas!  I promise that your Mrs Patmore is an exceptional cook; you’d really enjoy her mutton, I’m quite certain!”

Flicking ashes at the tree, Thomas whispered low and hoarse, “It’s not meant for the likes of me.”

Philip closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the back of Thomas’s head, feeling the cool black hairs against his eyelids, breathing in the sent of brilliantine and tobacco. “You’re not talking about the sandwich, are you?  Thomas….  We both know that it would be impossible for us to make things _work_.  You’d be so much happier with someone you could— you could— you could join for drinks at the pub— or— or take in a picture at the nickelodeon.  You deserve more than—“

Thomas shook his head vigorously, cutting off Philip’s words with the action. “ _I_ was the one who was supposed to end it,” he whispered hoarsely, “ _Not you_.  You’re the one who was supposed to feel _rejected_ — to be the one left wanting, being unwanted. Not me—not again.  _You_.”

“Well, if you want me to feel _rejected_ —  You keep telling me that you don’t want declarations.  That you don’t want me to make promises that I can’t keep.  And you were right, I can’t promise you a life together where we go skipping along hand-in-hand.  So, isn’t this _exactly_ what you want, Thomas?  I won’t tell you that I love you— that I can’t stop thinking about you— I won’t tell you that.  Because that’s what you want.   That’s what you’ve been saying that you want.”  Thomas can feel the splatter of droplets against the nape of his neck, the shudder of the other man’s breath.

Thomas shut his eyes and wished he could shut his ears as well.  “It’s not meant for the likes of me,” he repeated.

“It’s not meant for the likes of any of us,” Philip whispered as he wrapped his arms around Thomas’s waist, drawing him close.  “I so wish that I could change the ways of world for you, Thomas, but I can’t even do it for myself.  All I can do is be with you for this short time that we have,” he whispered as he placed a gentle kiss upon Thomas’s earlobe.

Thomas tilted his head back, allowing himself to simply enjoy the feeling of Philip’s breath upon his skin, soft lips nibbling along his jawline.  “It’s not fair.  Everyone else gets to talk about the future.  Dream about tomorrow.”

Taking Thomas’s hand, Philip guided him into the wood.  “I know, my darling.  But we can still make the most of today.”

 


	22. Help Wanted

“ _That’s_ your plan?” an incredulous Henry asked with his eyebrows raised so high he fancied they might knock down one of the tree branches overhead.Across the lake, he could just barely make out Barrow and the Duke before the two men disappeared into a thicket of birch trees... to have a nice chat. That’s all. Just a chat. They disappeared into the woods for a chat. “You want to _hire_ a— a _boyfriend_ for—“

“We’re not hiring a boyfriend for Barrow.We’re hiring a valet for _you_.If Barrow so happens to hit it off with the gentleman….”The corners of Mary’s mouth quirked up into a coy smile as her voice trailed off.

Henry let out a sigh, for he already knew the can of worms that he was about to open, “It’s obvious the man is perfectly capable of…” he gave a slight nod towards the other end of the lake to punctuate his next words “… _tending to his own needs_.Why must we—“ He dropped his voice to a whisper before continuing, “ _Why must we assume the mantle for Barrow’s sex life_?”

Scoffing dismissively, Mary countered, “It’s not about his _sex life_ , darling.And you needn’t whisper.I highly doubt the squirrels will be gossiping.The Duke and I agree that what dear Barrow truly needs is _companionship_.He needs someone to be his friend as well as his—”

“Darling, the man is _surrounded_ by people who wish him well.He has friends!Hell, _I_ can be his--“

Mary rolled her eyes so violently in response that Henry feared for a moment that they might pop out of her head and tumble onto the ground.“He needs someone to be his friend as well as— as well as being _more_.“

“So than it _is_ about his sex life.”

Glaring daggers at her husband, Mary pushed herself up out of her seat, her giant belly knocking into the table, upsetting the various dishes, and announced with an annoyed grunt, “…Ugh, I have to pee.”At some point in her pregnancy—right around when the morning sickness kicked into full gear—Mary had quit using euphemisms such as "powder my nose" and “I’m going upstairs to take off my hat.” The shift in decorum thoroughly amused both Tom and Henry whilst thoroughly horrifying Mary's parents. The dowager's opinion on the matter had yet to be ascertained.

“ _Again_?” Henry asked incredulously.

“Yes, _again_ ,” she grumbled as flames shot out of her eyeballs, incinerating her idiot husband into a pile of ashes and—

“You’re picturing shooting flames from your eyeballs at me, aren’t you,” Henry remarked with a slight smirk.

“Indeed, I am,” Mary confirmed as she waddled over to a patch of dog rose bushes.

“I’m going to be sleeping on the settee tonight, aren’t I,” he deadpanned.

“Indeed, you are,” she confirmed as she squatted behind a bush.“And, it’s not just about friendship or… or about _sex_.It’s that he needs someone who can be all those things for him....”After a few short moments during which Henry whistled awkwardly while admiring the chinoiserie motif painted upon the porcelain dishes, Mary reappeared from her hiding spot and continued, “Yes, he has friends at Downton.People who love and care for him.And, yes, I’m sure there are… places… where his other needs may be… _tended_.But that’s not the same as having someone who is _both_.”

Pondering over the matter, Henry offered, “Well, then… why not… why not wish him the best with this Duke chap?I’ll admit that I found him to be a bit insufferable at the beginning— still do, if I’m to be frank—but he does appear to be rather smitten.And I dare say that Barrow feels the same.”

Settling herself back into her chair, Mary shook her head, “He’s a _Duke_.Barrow is a _butler_.”

“Well, that’s a bit snobbish of you, I really must say,” Henry countered, feeling rather taken aback by his wife’s succinct declaration.

“Snobbish?! …I should think not!I don’t have a snobbish bone in my body,” Mary sniffed.

It was Henry’s turn to scoff and roll his eyes, "Careful, my dear.The color green does not suit you."

Mary's mouth fell open in shock."Are you suggesting that I... _envy_ Barrow?You think _I'm_ jealous of _Thomas Barrow_?!"

"Well, he did manage to snag himself a fellow with a fancy title.Robbed my dear sweet wife of a lovely tiara—“

“I already have a tiara, and I somehow doubt that Barrow wishes to have one of his own (even if he _did_ make for a rather charming fairy godmother),” Mary cut-in as she folded her arms across her chest in what was _surely_ a dismissive manner. “And aren’t _you_ the pot calling the kettle black?Seems to me _you’re_ the jealous one if you think a failed courtship from eons ago is worth even a second thought.”

“So you’re saying that it was neither snobbery nor jealousy that had you nearly ruin things for your sister?”

Willing herself not to flush with shame—for if there was one thing that Mary refused to do, it was to show that she regretted a single moment of her life—she muttered, “Well, things turned out quite splendidly for Edith...." _Growing soft in my old age_ , a voice at the back of Mary's mind teased her as another voice--one that sounded so much like sweet Sybil--whispered, _You're better than this_."You're right.I _was_ jealous of Edith. But only because I had no idea how splendidly things would turn out for _me_."

“Call me a romantic, but—“

“Romantic.” She smirked slightly and the tension that had been building between them melted.

“—call me a romantic, but if a beautiful pig farmer and a grease monkey can make a go of it, why not a butler and a Duke?"

Mary snorted in a most undignified manner, "Is that how you think of me? As a pig farmer?"

"A _beautiful_ pig farmer," Henry corrected with a cheeky grin."So tell me, why not a butler and a Duke?"

Mary clasped her hands as she looked down, "Darling, if you think me snobbish, it is _nothing_ compared to how the rest of our society would respond to someone of the Duke's position spending time with someone of Barrow's.Dukes and butlers do not visit the nickelodeon together.They don't sit down at the same table at the local pub for a pint.They might live under the same roof, but.... How could I possibly wish for Barrow to have a life in which he's unable to even express simple _friendship_ with his partner?"

"...so we're getting me a valet."

"So we're getting you a valet."


	23. There’s a First Time For Everything

"I know you're scared, sweetheart.But I just want to make you feel good.I promise that you're going to absolutely _love_ it."

Philip closed his eyes and, despite his trepidation, felt much of the tension dissipate from his body as Walter's soft lips pressed gently against his eyelids.He had a general inkling as to how the man intended to follow through on his promise--after all, didn't Philip take care of such matters under the bed covers with his own hand once the rest of the household had gone to sleep?Given that such nocturnal pastimes had lead to neither blindness nor hairy palms, he elected to ignore the jaunty voice at the back of his mind presently singing a merry tune about hellfire and eternal damnation.

Because how could anyone say that _this_ was wrong when Walter Fitzgerald's lips were the very definition of perfection?The corners of Philip's mouth curled upwards as he felt Walter's lips marking a trail of gentle nips along his neck, his chest, and finally his belly.

"Do you like that?" Walter asked quite needlessly if the tenting of Philip's pants was any indication.Not waiting for an answer, he began to tug the cotton fabric down the young man's hips.

Philip's breath hitched as he felt--instead of Walter's hand as he had anticipated--Walter's _mouth_ wrapping around his cock in a firm, moist embrace.Somehow, it had never occurred to the young aristocrat that mouths could be used for such things and he admonished himself for his lack of imagination.Concluding that Walter's mouth was simply _made_ for his cock, Philip momentarily lemented that his own hand would forever more be but a pale imitation.The moan that was building at the back of Philip's throat as the tension in his belly increased abruptly changed to a gasp as he felt the tip of Walter's finger circling... "What-- what are you doing?"

"Shhhh," the handsome young footman whispered as he slowly pressed his index finger inside Philip's body. 

Philip began to gasp like a fish, taking deep breaths through his open mouth.How was it that _he_ , the son of a _duke_ , could be so worried about disappointing a mere footman with his inexperience?He willed his body to relax just as Walter began to press a second finger inside of him. 

"Are you doing ok?Do you want me to stop?" Walter asked as he began to slide his fingers in and out, adding a third finger before he had even finished uttering the question.

He wanted to say, _Yes, let's stop.I'm not ready for this._ But hadn't he been the one to pursue the footman's affections like a foolish girl?Hadn't he blushed and smiled the first time he set his eyes upon the older boy--a _man_ , really, at four years Philip's senior--and thanked all of the angels in heaven for bringing him such a beautiful gift?

Instead, he smiled. "I'm fine.Don't-- don't stop," he whispered as he involuntarily winced."This feels--this feels so good."And he smiled and fluttered his eyelashes in what he supposed was a seductive manner but mostly looked like he had dust in his eyes.

Walter tilted his head up and grinned wolfishly."I told that you'd loved it," he whispered huskily before returning the attention of his mouth to more urgent matters.

Slowly but surely, Philip felt himself relaxing, the tension in his belly uncurling.He stifled a groan--they needed to be careful, after all, and not make too much noise--as he felt Walter remove his hand and that glorious mouth of his."What's wrong?" Philip asked in confusion.

"Could you... could you lie on your stomach for me?" Walter whispered, his pupils so dilated that they swallowed the amber of his irises.Philip saw his own face reflected in those dark pools and felt as though he might drown.He complied with the request if for no other reason than to stop himself from stupidly asking why.Even with his utter lack of imagination, he knew _why_.And, really, he _wanted_ this next bit, didn't he? _Everyone_ knew that the kissing, the groping, the _mouths_ bring used in cunning new ways--everyone knew that it was simply prelude to the next bit.

So he did as requested even though Walter Fitzgerald was _just_ a footman (and not even a _first_ footman!) because this whole dalliance had been Philip's idea, hadn't it?

 

* * *

 

Twenty-two years later, he was on his knees under a canopy of trees, nuzzling his face into soft tweed fabric and filling his nostrils with the organic smell of musk.

The sigh that came from above sounded more exacerbated than angry, and Philip wished that he could hide his face as embarrassment colored his cheeks. He felt like an absolute fool, dropping to his knees without so much as a how-do-you-do or by-your-leave.And if he had any sense at all, he would have scolded Thomas for standing _so damn close_ when it was quite clear that Philip was merely checking to see if his shoelaces were tied, thank you very much!

Instead, he rubbed his nose against Thomas's crotch.

"Get up," Thomas whispered above him in a strained voice, "You're going to make a mess of your trousers."

"Let them get messy," Philip half growled, half purred."I don't care."

Another sigh came from above, and this time, it _did_ sound angry. "That's because you're not the one who has to get the grass stains out of them.Now _get_ up."

And there it was: the reminder that, no matter how much he wished it was otherwise, he was entirely too self-centered to ever bring Thomas happiness. Philip squeezed his eyes shut.Even when he found himself genuflecting at the alter of Thomas Barrow's crotch, he was reminding them both that it wasn't meant to be.If not for the ear shattering silence of the forest floor, the tiny murmur of _I love you_ may have gone unheard, unacknowledged.

A rustling of movement, and Philip could now feel Thomas's hot breath against his cheek."Why do you say things you can't mean?" Thomas whispered hoarsely, "You say that you love me--and maybe you actually _believe_ that you do--but I've heard you say it before and _just like before_ you're leaving me behind.Did you mean it back then?Do you mean it now?"

"I just want you to be happy." The remark sounded pathetic even to his own ears.They both knew that the only happiness someone like Philip cared about was his own.That's what a footman was for: to make _Philip_ feel good."I just want you to be happy," he repeated, "even though that means I can't be happy with you."

"Do you think that's even possible for someone like me?"

"God, I hope so.Or else, what hope is there for _me_?" Philip gave a small deprecating laugh before continuing."You have something here that I can only _dream_ , Thomas.The people here _know_ and _accept_ you.Please don't ask me to take that away from you just so that I can keep you to myself.Please don't ask me to force you back behind a closet door just so _I_ can pretend to be happy.I love you too much to do that."

And, despite his prior reservations, Thomas believed him.


End file.
